


open-ended

by inertial



Category: B.A.P
Genre: M/M, Romance, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 19:36:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 66,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9563426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inertial/pseuds/inertial
Summary: An office worker and a writer in a slump become friends.





	1. Chapter 1

 

**[open-ended](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuC2sc-1CMU&list=PLflKpEjRZwlfbseXgO4AlUJqjzOnGqPKe) **

_Daehyun/Youngjae_

 

 

 

Times are hard. Another day withers away in front of a twelve-inch screen and the blue-black beats itself into the atmosphere. Youngjae sobers up to darkness as he backspaces for the umpteenth time, the cursor blinking up at him. 

Three thousand and forty-one words in seven hours. He’s losing it. Youngjae leans back into the chair and stretches himself, heaving in exhaustion. The only light in the house glaringly claws out from his laptop as he types a single line more before saving.

His stomach growls and he glimpses at the clock. It's nine. Staring for too long at the same chunk of itty bitty black on white won't give him any more ideas, anyway. He might as well go get some grub from the convenience store and catch a breather. Get some inspiration from the outside, perhaps.

Because erotica definitely needs inspiration to write. He wonders why he even bothers when his client sends back his work with the same kind of remarks, telling him to focus on the sex. As a ghostwriter, he shouldn't care about the quality of his work as long as it’s passable. At six dollars per thousand words, his publisher eats up every piece of kinky crap he writes.

Youngjae claps his laptop close. Darkness immediately drenches him and he takes a good look around his dingy apartment. He briefly glances to the worn-out notebooks stacked by the shelves and the black all around him aptly feels like the words he's written. It's swarming; it's drowning, like a heap of absolute rubbish crushing him.

He feels cheap. Shaking the feeling off, he wanders around and swipes his wallet from the counter. He slips on a hoodie and heads out without another look back.

From his doorstep down the stairwell, the overhead lamps douse him kindly with a warm tungsten amber and he peers at his sore, twitching fingers. He might damage something if he keeps this up, but the deadline is tomorrow. Honestly, if he would just let himself rehash the same kind of nonsense he's told to write for every steamy scene, he would probably have finished by yesterday.

When he emerges from the building, the sounds of brimming city whooshes past his skin. Heels clacking, whirring engines, wheels skidding against asphalt. Today, he particularly likes the godforsaken honks through the cacophonous traffic and the endlessly floating gossip down the urban walkways. Likely because he's been stuck inside for too long.

He winds past the convenience store below his block and lets the cheeky neon lights lead the way. In every town, there's always an area more dazzling than the rest where the crowds flock to. Youngjae watches in mesmerisation as the harsh, dilapidated concrete bleeds out into spick and span squares. A sprinkle of polished floors and glimmering signs. 

It's beautiful. The gloom weighing down in his lungs promptly disintegrate and he breathes a bit of hope in his smile. 

He'll make it someday. So what if he's not seeing any light for now? There are tons of famous authors who get their works sent back over and over again, before they finally make it. It takes time, so long as he works hard enough, he'll make it one day.

Youngjae slinks into a nearby mart and snags a random cup of instant noodles and a can of coffee. He considers eating here but the view isn’t too appetising. He stares across to the family restaurant opposite, waiters sweeping out and hurriedly marching back in.

Youngjae yawns away the perching dusk and joins the stream of passers-by, walking further down into town. He wants to write about the city lights someday and how it glistens prettily in the night sky. Dreams of a backpacker standing in the midst of New York with the sudden breath of change, highways that run away into the abysmal darkness.

Yeah, it'll be nice to write about the city one day. There's a lot of stories here. Somewhere down the road a father rushes home to his five-year-old daughter sleeping by the window in wait, while a lover goes to spend another night in the hospital.

And he? He's a shabby writer trapped in a one-room apartment, who could very well be considered unemployed from how low his wage is. It's not a great story, but it’s a decent premise if he ever hits big.

Gentle guitar strums waltz through the hectic muttering. Youngjae peers down the sidewalk and notices a man sitting along the curb, guitar sitting on his lap. He wanders over and stands a distance away, watching the man play.

The music is mellow and somewhat nostalgic. The musician seems to fade into the background with his dark dressing and the black mask over the lower half of his face, only his almond eyes and mole showing. His tattered guitar case lies open, fabric ripped out and gangling in the light breeze.

From here, Youngjae catches the scarce traces of silver inside. He stands for a while more and hums along when he catches on to the tune. 

The busker glimpses at him and Youngjae offers a small smile. He turns out his empty pockets and shrugs, the stranger staring for a moment before chuckling. He looks to be in his twenties.

Youngjae settles down a courteous distance from the man. Listening for a while more, he shifts closer and remarks, "I think I've heard this before. What's it called?"

The man spares him a quick glance. "It's not Wonderwall, if that's what you're thinking," he muffles against his mask, still strumming his guitar.

_Asshole,_ Youngjae thinks as he scoffs amusedly. "It's not? Must be Hey There Delilah then."

The man snorts, shaking his head with an entertained grin. 

The conversation ends there. Ten minutes later of shuffling feet and bokeh lights (because he forgot his glasses), Youngjae stands. He wipes the condensation off the coffee can and places it into the guitar case.

"Thanks," Youngjae says, bobbing his head a little. "You play well."

The busker looks to him and Youngjae promptly spins on his feet, sauntering down the way he came. His front door creaks and the lights flicker before they fully come on, empty silence staring back at him. 

He shuts the door behind him.

 

\--

 

It's a week later that he meets him again. Youngjae is sitting at the bus-stop ten minutes from his apartment complex, swinging his legs back and forth. It's been half an hour since he first perched himself here on the very end of the bench, watching buses come and go. Six, Youngjae has counted. He flagged down several of them for those running after the bus.

"A year ago today," a sudden voice bristles from his left. Youngjae turns and comes face to face with a man with thick lips. 

Blinking, he peers in bewilderment as the man sighs and sits by his side. Whoever this is wears the standard office attire, his white dress shirt paired with a red tie.

"What?" Youngjae brashly returns. Oh god, did he borrow money and forget to return it? 

"The song," the man remarks, looking out to the road before looking to Youngjae. "It's called _A year ago today_."

Youngjae furrows his brows. He stares for a long while in an attempt to comprehend.

The man churns out a small smile. "I'm the busker from last Wednesday," he provides, patting his knee. "You sat with me and gave me your coffee."

Finally, the man melts into recognition. Youngjae breaks out into a surprised grin, peering at his face for a second. 

_This guy is pretty handsome. He would have gotten more cash if he'd taken off his mask._

"Wow, you look real different," Youngjae laughs, scrutinising the man's dressing. "You look smart."

"Thanks. I'm heading to work. Late day," the man provides with a chuckle. He hums for a moment before putting out a hand. "Jung Daehyun."

"Yoo Youngjae," Youngjae replies as he takes his hand. "Honestly, I kind of assumed you were a full-time busker or something."

He slips his fingers away and returns to staring out a daylight traffic, afternoon sun tempering the heat.

"A year ago today, huh? Nice," Youngjae comments. He wades into a shallow pool of thoughts, mostly to keep the small talk going. 

"A year ago today, I was… eh, probably eating chips on my bed," he finishes.

Daehyun snorts, chuckle simmering into the humidity. He tugs at his collar and notes, "You don't seem to be waiting for the bus."

Intrigued, Youngjae arches an eyebrow. "How'd you know?"

Daehyun points to the small convenience shop a short distance away. "I was eating lunch there. Saw you miss one or two buses."

"No wonder you smell like ramen," Youngjae sighs, patting his stomach. He doesn't want to make assumptions, but from what Daehyun has shared, it sounds like he isn't married.

"Do you live around here?" Youngjae muses, throwing a brief glance back at the few residential blocks cluttering the vicinity. All dreary grey, a bit lifeless even in the blinding sunlight. Less so than his own shabby apartment building, though.

“Further down. Came here to check out some furniture prices.” Daehyun gazes down at Youngjae's rocking legs. He deliberates for a short moment before swinging his own legs a little, nodding lightly as though he'd just sewn out a song mid-air. 

"What about you?"

"Oh, I live over on Woonmyung street," Youngjae mentions.

"There's not much for you to do in this area." Daehyun furrows his brows and veers his head back, as if to confirm his statement. "Are you waiting for someone?"

"Nah. I was wandering and my legs brought me here, so I'm sitting around, doing some people-watching." 

Youngjae's eyes follow a convertible that pulls up in the bus bay, two girls bidding their friend goodbye. Some of their giggles drift over as Youngjae innocently listens in, the car whooshing off without a moment's delay.

Their figures disappear into the apartment complex, leaving the sidewalk empty once more with just them two in the afternoon stillness. There's someone walking his dog over on the other side. The occasional car swerves in as well, light scintillating off the glistening paint coats. Maroon, silver, blue. He tried counting them by colours but gave up after a while.

"So, you're checking out girls?" Daehyun concludes with a snicker.

Youngjae groans, much to Daehyun's amusement. "Come on. At least make it sound nicer. I'm appreciating their beauty."

"Right," Daehyun chuckles. They evanesce into a slow tune of silence, Youngjae shutting his eyes and drawing out the sweltering asphalt beneath his eyelids. Not the best day to go wandering, to be honest, but it's good to get out of the house before his next word porn assignment comes.

"You might as well get on the bus," Daehyun suggests thoughtfully. "This place is kind of dead. You'll be able to see more and the only bus here loops back to Woonmyung."

Youngjae turns out his pockets and fiddles with the white fabric. “Got no money,” he cheekily chirps.

"Seriously?" Daehyun scoffs in amusement, patting his forehead as perspiration trickles down. He tugs out his wallet and thumbs out a dollar, wordlessly offering it to the other man.

"Woah, how generous," Youngjae laughs, taking the coin and tossing it up and down. "What about my trip back?"

"I just told you that the bus loops," Daehyun chuckles. In any case, he flicks out another dollar into Youngjae's curled fingers.

Youngjae bites back a chortle as he swings his legs further, beaming, "You're weird."

"What, no ‘thanks'? Only a ‘you're weird’ for being kind?" Daehyun clicks his tongue, craning his neck and squinting down the bus lane. There's a bus halted at the traffic junction.

"Fine, thanks," Youngjae counters with a hearty guffaw. "You're weird for being so nice, alright? Not every guy would suddenly give me small change to go wandering."

"Well, bus rides get lonely," Daehyun says as he rises, dusting his pants. He offers Youngjae a small smile of chapped skin and wrinkled cheeks, angling his chin towards the bus that cruises to a stop.

"Are you getting on?"

Youngjae blocks out the sunlight with one hand as he stares up at Daehyun, whirr of the engine droning loudly. He gets up and sends back a smile.

 

\--

 

Their conversation that day ended with in some overpopulated business district down in the next town, leaving Youngjae to speak with frosted glass and the spectacle of metropolitan lustre out the window. He went all the way to the suburbs and made a round back with the coincidental evening, pink shading the same rise and fall of buildings. A delicate glow had wrapped around the city bleeding into the dusk as Youngjae remained by the window, remnants of day light on his shoulders.

Daehyun's story isn't much. He's an office worker doing some admin stuff and he's single—broke up three years back and hasn't been actively looking for a girlfriend because of his job. He busks in his free time as a form of relaxation, since he thinks it's unhealthy to be cooped up alone in his house too much. 

He moved from Busan around thirteen years ago because of his father and he's twenty-nine years old. He'd been surprised to hear Youngjae was only a year younger, saying he thought he'd be in his early twenties because of his baby face. Since Youngjae’s an early baby, he wins a pass and gets to drop the honorifics.

Youngjae has never really had these type of conversations before. Those with an amiable stranger and guttural laughter, those that feel like you're talking more to the afternoon. With the city so cold, it seemed as if it was ripped from a script. 

Their meeting came to a close with a destination and the ring of the bus bell. No exchange of numbers, just little smiles and a cordial wave.

_See you again_.

It has been almost a month since then. Life is pretty much the same. Youngjae rushes for deadlines and feels a bit of himself die out every time he remembers he's writing about gangbangs to make a living. It’s not that he's a prude saint and gangbangs are gross to him. Rather, the fact he's writing watertight scenes in order to have bread the next day is unsettling. 

He gambled with the three times he randomly hopped onto the same bus, wondering if Daehyun would get on. All three times, he didn't. Hanging out in the vicinity where Daehyun vaguely lives has given him no luck.

Destiny doesn't work as nicely as in the storybooks. Youngjae probably shouldn't be holding on but he hasn't had any friends since he moved here three years ago. The neighbours aren't friendly, the convenience store clerk quit last year and his job doesn't give him a chance to make friends.

Tuesday night comes quickly. Recent days are accompanied by streaks of lazy rain down the gravel and a prominent, grassy smell in the air. The puddles make it so that the luminance of the vivd signboards and stoplights melt out onto the roads.

Youngjae paces down the pavement with one hand twirling his blemished earphones, walking down to the convenience store further down in the city. Amber and sapphire splashes out whenever a motorcycle skids past.

Daehyun briefly crosses his mind as he gets the same coffee and instant noodles, standing by the table that overlooks that family restaurant down the road. He keeps the coffee can, in case Daehyun shows up while he's walking home. 

He doesn't. Youngjae feels a little stupid as he pops open the now lukewarm coffee can. He slurps at it as he ambles up to his block.

Looking around, Youngjae spots someone busking a few blocks down. He's wearing a red beanie and he's strumming away on his guitar. It's too far to make out his face.

It could be anyone, but Youngjae crosses the road for the heck of it. As he nears, the music fades in more clearly with his footsteps. The chords are familiar. He has to stare for a while to recognise Daehyun's side profile after three weeks.

He quickens his pace and crouches down, plopping his open coffee beside the guitar case. Daehyun lifts his head and he flutters his lashes in surprise, the music abruptly pausing and a wry smile scrawling across his face.

"Hey, is that Wonderwall?" Youngjae questions playfully, pressing his lips together so he won't smile too much. He settles down by Daehyun's side as the other scoffs, shaking his head.

"I was thinking you'd never show up," Daehyun sighs, tuning his guitar. "I've been playing the same damn song for a month now. This place doesn't get me a lot of cash either."

"You came here for me?" Youngjae asks, comfortably hugging his knees close to his chest. There's rain clustering in the crevices of the cobbled path, slithering to hide underneath his sneakers.

"By the time I realised I forgot to get your number, the bus already went off," Daehyun sheepishly mutters, leaving Youngjae to laugh.

"And yeah. Thrice," Daehyun remarks, stretching himself with a contented smile. "Changed spots along this street."

The night is cold. There's warmth brewing in the bottom of Youngjae’s stomach and he feels a bit flushed, because it's been a long time since someone's done something for him. Someone besides his family, that is. 

The feeling of making friends is unfamiliar amid the soggy street air. Eight o'clock on another lonely night. It's nice.

"Desperate."

Daehyun shifts and starts strumming another melody. "Bastard. I don't have a lot of friends."

"You don't?" Youngjae inquires, tapping a light rhythm to the music. _A year ago today_ had harsh sounds and melancholic harmonies, like that of a sun-kissed farmer in the sweltering heat, lugging along prickly harvests. This one is mellow and somewhat soft, even though it's not. It reminds him of sepia filters and a nineteen-year-old playing his guitar in his room at midnight.

"Yeah. Lost contact with college friends. Not close to my colleagues either." Daehyun runs his fingers smoothly over the strings, abrupt pause leaving an odd silence between the sloshes of passing footsteps.

He unlocks his phone and hands it over to Youngjae. The music resumes promptly and Youngjae grins, dialling his own number.

"Are they assholes?" He cuts the call and saves Daehyun's contact on his phone.

"Nah. Just not close to them," Daehyun says. He makes a face at the open can and picks it up, inspecting it for a moment.

"At least give me something that's not been drunk." He sips at it and hands it back. "By the way, coffee gives me diarrhoea."

"Ew." Youngjae shifts and points to his block. "I live there, so next time, maybe you should try busking there instead."

"Hey, I was busking there last Thursday night. I think the problem's more of that you don't leave your house enough," Daehyun mentions.

"Screw you," Youngjae groans. "I was rushing for a deadline. Didn't have the luxury of getting out of the house."

"For your novel?" Daehyun hums, fingers framing out a consistent, mild melody.

Youngjae shrugs. He hadn't been keen on telling Daehyun what he did for a living on their impromptu bus ride, so he'd said simply he was a writer trying to make ends meet. It probably sounded a lot more dignified to Daehyun than the reality was.

"What's this song called?" Youngjae hums, catching up to the harmony with ease. The stale rain drips from the flimsy metal roof above their heads, tapping out an off-beat rhythm to Daehyun's guitar.

" _Eyes Closed_." To make a point, Daehyun shuts his eyes and doesn't hesitate in his strums. Youngjae snorts.

"Are you the kind that goes for only indie music?" 

He picks at the aglets of his shoelaces and realises the front of his shoe is torn. He wonders briefly if Daehyun recognises the same shoes and attire from last month before reminding himself no one would care. Well, unless they see him every day to know he only owns this pair of sneakers.

He hadn't really cared about wearing the same dreary T-shirt out every few days since his neighbours don't pay any attention to him anyway. But now that he's starting this friendship thing, he should probably get some new clothes. You know. Before Daehyun thinks he's homeless.

"Not really. When I was a kid, yeah, since I thought it made me a special snowflake." He raps lightly on his guitar. "But I kept the songs from then. They're good."

"Cool." Youngjae leans back against the titanium shutters and furrows his brows. "Hey, just to make sure, you're not a serial killer or anything, right? I’ve got to know if we're going to start this whole friend thing."

Daehyun smelts out a nice ring of belly laughter. He shrugs, wearing an amused simper. "I run a drug cartel. That's okay, right?"

"As long as you give me some of your dough," Youngjae drawls.

Daehyun's chuckle simmers into ten o'clock dreamless nights as their lighthearted conversation lingers on about their day. Mostly Daehyun's day as Youngjae has absolutely nothing to talk about, which is surprising considering Daehyun's life is all routine bleak nonsense and button keys.

Daehyun says he's free for dinner tomorrow evening and laughs when Youngjae asks genuinely if they can eat at the local minimart. They settle things and Daehyun slings his guitar over his back, sauntering off with a languid wave.

 

\--

 

Somehow, the occasional Saturday ends up for Youngjae's one and only friend, some guy he met on the street and once more at the bus-stop. It's a bit clichéd in the paperbacks but when it happens in real life, it's pretty cool. Either Daehyun's the kind of daring person who walks up to strangers all the time, or that Youngjae's really cool that no sane person can resist seeing him just twice.

Maybe Daehyun's a little lonely, like he is. Cities get cold when it's solely hard squares and little windows, all mashed up in the repetition. How everyone seems to know where they're going.

Youngjae likes to think that it's a nice blend of all three reasons and Daehyun went ahead for the heck of it, mostly to see where things would end up. Afternoons spent with strings and conversations of cadences, maybe. 

For Youngjae, it's good to have some routine since his life is a mess—no office hours or wife's call to keep him in check. For Daehyun, too much structure and the four walls of nine to five o'clock cubicles (and rest of the day apartment pillars) is suffocating. He needs a break from grids so he won't burn out too much.

Daehyun brings his guitar every time he comes over. Youngjae can tell he's in love with it, somewhat, at least. The first time Daehyun had come over, he'd played Wonderwall to humour him, but still, his rendition of it was nice. It was crisp and heavy, like singing mutely of melancholy suburbs and bitter ripples along the lake.

Today’s song is called One Man Town, featuring Daehyun’s little hums here and there. Youngjae’s not sure why Daehyun would want to come over considering his apartment reeks of musty gunk and his own place isn’t too far, but he doesn’t ask.

It’s evening. Tiresome traffic from yesterday is chiselled into Daehyun’s dark circles. Youngjae flutters open his eyes when Daehyun ends the song on a faded note. 

“I like it,” he starts, resuming his noisy crunches as he digs into the bag of potato chips he extorted from Daehyun while he was on his way here.

“You like everything I play,” Daehyun remarks with a chuckle. His wrinkled hand brushes against Youngjae’s smeared one as he grabs a chip.

“That’s because they’re all nice. You’re good,” Youngjae states, still lying on the sofa. He veers his stare from the ceiling and rolls onto his side, cheek squished against the torn fabric. The deadline for his assignment is in three days.

“Though, you’d be better in general if you bought me BBQ flavoured chips instead of sour cream.” 

Youngjae lets out a soft yelp when Daehyun nudges his forehead with his wrist, padding away with the empty bag to wash his hands. He smells of tobacco.

Youngjae sucks on his fingers lazily and examines the cracks along the ceiling paint. It’s great that Daehyun’s comfortable with him, otherwise they’d have to pave through that awkward phase of finding out boundaries.

“Is this how you spend your days?” Daehyun asks, voice panning in as he plods back. “Lying around, waiting for a bag of chips to drop into your hands?”

“Just around you,” Youngjae specifies, though Daehyun’s almost right. He does lie around, but with his laptop and while wallowing in another bout of repressed misery. He promised himself he’d finish this assignment today but well, writing is a little too arbitrary to punch into his calendar. 

On good days where his eyes don’t sting, his mind can churn out a decent piece. Those don’t go anywhere, though. Stories of highway cliffs, wind in her hair, teenagers in love—it’s kept in the folds of his notebooks and the buried folders in his cluttered laptop.

“Oh, so I’m a bad influence,” Daehyun hums, the tinge of artificial intrigue in his words making Youngjae laugh.

“Pretty much.”

Daehyun settles on the ground and slumps against the sofa. He turns his head to speak to Youngjae, belatedly realising they are rather close. Youngjae scrunches up his face in the worst contortion he can manage, gums showing avidly along with widened nostrils.

“You make me feel young,” Daehyun backhandedly compliments with a laugh. He cradles his guitar in his lap.

“Thanks.” Youngjae snuggles against his fusty sofa and mentions, “You really love playing the guitar, huh?”

“Kind of,” Daehyun replies, plucking randomly at the strings. “I actually stopped playing it quite a long time ago. Picked it up again last year.”

“Any particular reason why?”

“I was trying to fill up my spare time,” Daehyun says. He points to the shelf with several varying sizes of used notepads. “Hey, are those your stories?”

“Mm, they’re really old. Complete garbage.” Youngjae gnaws on his lower lip. 

“I want to read them,” Daehyun states anyway. “You said you started writing eighteen years ago, right? When you were ten. You still keep those from then?”

Youngjae winces, sourness creeping along with a potent humiliation. “Don’t remind me.”

“You do?” Daehyun leans back, one arm over the seat as he grins tauntingly. “Which book is it?”

“I’m not going to tell you. You better not touch any of those books,” Youngjae snorts. Skids of tyres from the outside bleed over their conversation, nightfall simmering between the lampposts.

“If you didn’t want anyone to read them, you wouldn’t have put them in the living room,” Daehyun answers easily.

“Dude, I live alone in a one-bedroom apartment,” Youngjae points out in incredulity. “You’ve seen my bedroom. It’s tiny.”

“Not tiny enough that a shelf this size wouldn’t fit.” Daehyun slickly gets up, Youngjae widening his eyes and hastily grasping his woollen shirt.

“I put it there because no one ever comes to my house,” Youngjae rebounds, rubbing at his forehead in exasperation. “Didn’t expect a drug lord would chase me down to make friends with me.”

“Didn’t expect I’d become your personal chips delivery man after two weeks of eating at 7-11.”

Daehyun has good comebacks. He’s all calm snarkiness underneath his exterior of narrow shoulders and buff arms. His eyes are dull and his blinks are slow, like he’ll perpetually be at least an ounce fatigued. 

Youngjae likes someone who can clap back smartly at his sass—the last person who could was his college roommate majoring in dance, Moon Jongup. They don’t talk anymore, which is a shame since they both took majors half the world considers thousands of dollars invested into a cul-de-sac. Jongup probably finished his course, at least.

“Why doesn’t anyone visit?” Daehyun asks, dropping back onto the ground. Youngjae shrugs.

“Relatives? Friends?” Daehyun presses, reclining to get a better view of Youngjae unfurled on the couch. Youngjae heaves and crosses his arms over his stomach.

“I’m a lonely man. Don’t rub it in.” He drums his fingers against his tummy and sighs. “You’re right, anyway. The shelf was in my room for a few months but I moved it out. It’s supposed to be motivation.”

“For your writing?”

“Yeah. That I’d become an author one day,” Youngjae mumbles.

“You are an author," Daehyun states, cocking his head back. "You don't have to be famous to be one.”

Youngjae bats his lashes against his cheeks and the summer heat crumples into the room. The long pause in the conversation reminds him that he's a bad liar. Otherwise, Junhong wouldn't have dropped by with a convenient wad of cash to spare after their phone call.

“I write porn,” Youngjae snivels.

Daehyun turns back at the brash statement. “What?”

“I write porn,” Youngjae repeats. “I'm a freelance erotica author who caters to lonely women. I write about hot rich bosses and plain Janes doing kinky shit in the bedroom.”

“Oh.” Daehyun blinks. He slants his head to one side. “Do you write tentacle porn?”

“That's for my next assignment.”

They simmer into a bout of afternoon laughter. The silence eases back in as a compromise soon after. Youngjae gazes up at the ceiling, observing the peeling paint flitter in the breeze.

“I always thought I'd be a great author, you know?” He starts, tumbling onto his side. “I'd write all the best sellers. Have autograph sessions and back-to-back interviews.”

“But here I am, almost hitting my thirties, writing erotica for horny people so as to scrape by.” He picks at the tattered black fabric of his sofa, musing, “I wonder how many good stories are lost out there because they never make it out of the shadows.”

“Are you talking about yourself? Braggart,” Daehyun chuckles, scooting away when Youngjae tries to hit him. 

“You’re an author. You don’t need a company to tell you that.”

Youngjae heaves, tumbling over to face Daehyun once again. “I don’t know. I’ve got nobody to critic my work. Maybe I’ve been writing sucky books all this time and never realised.”

“Why don’t you show someone? Like your friends or your family,” Daehyun suggests, a soothing tranquillity tapping into his syllables. He maintains the casualness of a conversation revolving around broken dreams and Youngjae feels both indignant and thankful. 

His own voice sounds too nonchalant like they’re talking about the weather. “I used to,” Youngjae yawns. 

Youngjae was a starry-eyed kid with rose glasses and his head caught up in the clouds. The delusion of inspirational dreams-come-true and his family’s motivating praises fuelled his foolish pursuit of cloud nine. 

He told his parents the curriculum restrained his creativity and dropped out of college. Nobody told him that for one success story, there are a thousand failures of others untold.

It hurts to know people regret being nice to you. When the exaggerated compliments thinned into wry simpers and hesitation, Youngjae closed his storybooks and kept them for nobody’s eyes.

Daehyun leaves the silence intact for three counts. “Don’t worry about it, kid,” he hums “One day, you’re going to be a big author, and people are going to line up for hours just to get your books.”

He rises and dusts the back of his pants. “Come on. I’ll treat you to dinner.”

Youngjae plops back onto his bum at the immediate offer, grinning widely. “Wow, seriously? I should tell you sob stories more often.”

“Your mouth is both the best and worst thing about you,” Daehyun laments, yanking the slimmer man up. Youngjae sticks his tongue into one cheek and curls his left hand into a fist, imitating a blowjob without any qualms. He wags his finger when Daehyun squints at him.

“You’re a dirty, dirty man, Daehyun,” Youngjae remarks, forgetting about his sadness with a fickle laugh. “Thinking of me in that way.”

“Shut up.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

**[open-ended](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuC2sc-1CMU&list=PLflKpEjRZwlfbseXgO4AlUJqjzOnGqPKe) **

_Daehyun/Youngjae_

 

 

 

The city lights collapse into the crunches of black stone and concrete. There’s mayonnaise smeared against Youngjae’s lips as he stuffs his face with his fish fillet burger, Daehyun watching him in a concoction of amusement and distaste.

“You couldn’t wait fifteen minutes to eat at home?” Daehyun asks, swinging his double hamburger around. 

Youngjae snorts at him. “You’re the one who got the ultra deluxe set. Pig.” He squeaks when Daehyun elbows him in his side.

“I’m not the one without common decency,” Daehyun remarks, gesturing at the tons of passers-by striding down the street. The skin below his eyes is gnawed at by its usual raven silhouette, bats of lashes sluggish.

“Hey, isn’t your place nearer than mine?” Youngjae’s cheeks puff up, slurring his words as he chews. “I’m starting to think you’re a bum who’s just secretly crashing at my place. You don’t have a home, do you?”

The absence of a snide rebound has Youngjae glimpsing over. Daehyun is smiling, wrinkles scrawled over the edges of his eyes.

“You look like a hamster,” Daehyun guffaws, the prospect somehow mind-blowing to him.

Youngjae spares him a look of askance. Daehyun nonchalantly wraps an arm over Youngjae’s shoulder and they stroll back through flickers of gaunt stoplights.

“And yeah, you found me out. I’m actually homeless.”

It is another Saturday night and Daehyun’s still in his dress shirt, having been too lazy to change out since he left work in the early evening. He had been called to the company to fix some error the intern made.

Daehyun reeks of department store cologne and underarm sweat but Youngjae kind of, sort of, somewhat likes it. It smells like a person—living, breathing, feeling. Daehyun isn’t heaving his guitar on his back and his cuff links brush against Youngjae’s neck every now and then, but they still feel like carefree hitting-twenties youth.

It’s nice to have a friend.

The door hinges wail when they return, uncustomary to the newfound tensions throughout the month. They fling themselves onto the couch and Youngjae surfs through the channels to settle on a zombie apocalypse movie. Blood splatters against the screen along with clichéd shrieks.

“The hell. It looks like ketchup,” Youngjae comments with a click of the tongue. “This is so low budget.”

Daehyun swipes a fry, waving the ketchup-soaked tip in Youngjae's face. He gorges down more and Youngjae shakes his head in repulsion.

“Where did 'common decency' go?” Youngjae asks, stealing a couple of Daehyun's nuggets. “At least I looked cute stuffing my mouth. You look like a cow.”

Daehyun doesn’t concede defeat, lightly slapping Youngjae’s stomach. “I’m not the one who looks like I’m pregnant.”

“It’s not that bad, you asshole!”

Ten o'clock settles with remnants of dirty jokes and salted fingers, both of them too lazy to wrench themselves from the couch. They play rock, paper, scissors to decide who throws the trash and Daehyun's first to win three in a row. 

His phone vibrates amid his victory screech, Daehyun’s childlike glee drizzling from his expression. The contact gleaming over his screen is saved as _Ma_. He grabs the rubbish and excuses himself, clipping his phone between his shoulder and his ear.

Daehyun returns after a few minutes of murmuring. Clawing out a carton from his back pocket, he frowns to see it’s empty and rummages through his bag. Youngjae catches a glimpse of the cigarette box he niftily pockets.

“Hey, do you mind if I go out for a smoke?”

Youngjae gestures to the keys on the shelf and waves Daehyun away. He always pretended the puncture of tobacco belonged to Daehyun’s clothes rather than his teeth, since Daehyun has never lit up in front of him.

Daehyun trudges back into the house with nicotine split over the edges of his nails, swept away by the ghastly breeze. Youngjae is now lying on the sofa with his head hung over the armrest, observing how Daehyun dangles from the overturned ground.

“Your lungs are corrupted,” Youngjae remarks absentmindedly, crossing his arms beneath his head. Gravity tickles the roots of his hair and his mind draws out a slouched profile with soot-discoloured lungs. In a rickety car, his sun-kissed arm sporting a trucker’s tan, down Interstate 5 in a Californian heat. The twenty-four-year-old hitchhiker sits in the back of his vehicle, no make-up and determination etched into her countenance.

“Your brain’s corrupted.” Daehyun crouches down to make eye contact with Youngjae. “Is it because I smoke?”

Youngjae nods. “Do you still want to watch the movie?” He sits up and screams when Daehyun lugs him back down, manhandling his small head in the process.

“Hey, I only smoke when things are annoying,” Daehyun provides, hacking slightly. 

Youngjae remembers his father saying that an opened box of cigarettes goes bad after a few days. You’ve got to seal it or else it loses its flavour.

“Are you troubled?” Youngjae asks sincerely, hair falling above his ears once more. “I’m here to listen. Obliged to, since I’m your only friend.”

“Bastard. _I’m_ your only friend, too,” Daehyun points out with a brash guffaw. “You’re more friendless than me.”

“Is that why you sought me out? _Misery loves company?_ ” Youngjae hits back playfully. He pats Daehyun’s arm with difficulty, trying to coordinate himself while upside down.

“The opposite, actually,” Daehyun answers, jokingly sweeping Youngjae’s palm off him. “You’re seriously like a kid. You shun booze and cigarettes. Are you trying to be a nun?”

“Sorry I don’t enjoy killing myself,” Youngjae indignantly returns.

“You ever tried smoking?” Daehyun questions. He winds over and sits on the other side of the couch, Youngjae retracting his legs to make space.

“Nope.”

Daehyun raises a brow in intrigue. “Aren’t you curious?” 

“Nah.” Youngjae suckles on his greasy thumb and comments, “It’s the perk of being a writer. You try things out through your stories.”

“So that’s why you write porn.”

Youngjae kicks Daehyun in the stomach. The latter squawks and hurriedly tumbles off the sofa in case Youngjae decides on a second try. A grin teems at the edge of his lips as he peers up at Youngjae from the floor.

“So, you’ve written a story about smoking? What’s it about?”

“Um, this woman’s husband dies from lung cancer,” Youngjae shares. It had a tragic ending of being left behind when a lover sets his lungs on fire. Youngjae penned down the heartache of many things. The empty seat at the dining table. The vacant study room left untouched, as if she would open the door to tired eyes any moment. That extra cup of coffee on the kitchen counter every morning. He felt stupid crying about an imaginary death on the train.

“Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?” Youngjae earnestly offers, lifting his head to gaze at Daehyun. The latter has his stare trained on the bookshelf.

“Can you lend me that book you wrote about smoking?” Daehyun hums, whirring his head back with a small smile. “To help me kick the habit.”

“What am I, a library?” Youngjae rolls his eyes.

“Well, you aren’t reading them, are you?” Daehyun drawls, getting up and pacing over to the mahogany shelf by the television.

Youngjae scoots up as well. He watches the way Daehyun’s dress shirt shifts against his thick back, creases tight around his chest but loose over his small shoulders. Daehyun taps on a red notebook, binder peeling off the edge.

“Don’t touch them, Daehyun,” Youngjae mumbles. He eventually patters over and swats Daehyun’s busybody hands with a subtle pout.

“Come on. It’s better than leaving them here to collect dust. You wanted criticism, right? I did a book review once when I was fifteen,” Daehyun muses, lips quirking when Youngjae amusedly snorts. 

“I’m curious to know what someone like you writes about.”

“How long has it been since you read a book?” Youngjae inquires, feeling a little naked with Daehyun standing so close to the shelved years of penned words.

“Stopped when I was ten.” He catches Youngjae’s bewildered expression and elaborates, “I copied my friend’s book review.”

“Didn’t expect any less from you.” Youngjae rolls his eyes. His stare flickers away and he rubs the back of his neck. Daehyun pats the shorter man’s head with an assuring smile.

“If it sucks, I’ll tell you,” Daehyun declares. His coarse hand threads through Youngjae’s hair for a moment, messing it up playfully. Youngjae makes a face at him and hides his curled fingers behind his back, debating on whether he should or not. 

The notebooks have become quite personal to him over the years he’s been alone. Junhong asks him what he’s working on every now and then but Youngjae is always too ashamed to tell. Because every word scribbled is a few dollars his parents churn out for their oldest son and his vapid dream. 

Disillusionment is a hell of a drug.

Youngjae slots out a grey glue-bound notebook, edges dog-eared and split. Daehyun melts into a grin and takes it, thumbing through the yellowing pages before Youngjae stops him.

“Read it when you’ve left,” Youngjae mutters, hoping the embarrassment doesn’t materialise on the edge of his skin. He’s nervous, and the tight knot in his stomach doesn’t subside despite Daehyun obediently acquiescing.

This guy in front of him has heard him fart in succession after downing a huge plate of pork belly. Daehyun is the closest friend he has had in years and he has had the title a week after they met. He’s pretty much the only candidate to know of the things more intimate to Youngjae.

Youngjae tosses the book onto the coffee table and saunters to the kitchen with Daehyun in tow. “What did your mother call you about?” He blubbers as he washes his face, wiping the streaking remnants on his sleeves. “I’m seriously here to listen, you know.”

“It’s nothing much. Just her usual nagging.” Crunched tobacco drifts over Youngjae’s face as Daehyun leans against the countertop, pouring some water.

“She wants me to settle down,” Daehyun groans between his slurps. “Thinks she’ll die before she gets to see me married. It’s starting to get on my nerves.”

“At the rate you’re going, I’d have to agree. Right hands don’t make for good brides,” Youngjae returns. He coils his fingers and shakes hard, emitting an exaggerated moan.

“You’re really good at this ‘consoling’ business.” Daehyun’s palm meets Youngjae’s temple and the shorter man stumbles back with a jovial chortle. He hops onto the granite counter and their hands brush.

“Don’t rush things because of your mother,” Youngjae says, the words coming out a little softer than he expected. “It’s your life. Don’t do things you’ll regret later.”

“Not making her happy will be my regret too, once she’s gone,” Daehyun sighs with his lips curled lightly. He sieves out the cigarette box from his breast pocket and flicks out a stick. 

Youngjae takes it, the gesture surprising himself as he flutters his lashes at Daehyun.

“This will be a lot of people’s regrets,” he pauses, losing his words in Daehyun’s ashen irises. He lowers his gaze and awkwardly mumbles, “Not just yours.”

“Damn, you’re preachy,” Daehyun laughs, swiftly prying the stick from Youngjae’s fingers. “Didn’t come here to hear for a sermon.”

“You don’t know? Writers are the most pretentious people there are,” Youngjae puffs, the hanging atmosphere turning into one more of normalcy. 

He swears he isn’t the type to involve himself in other people’s affairs or act like he knows better, but Daehyun’s his friend. Only friend, so yeah, he’d much rather prefer Daehyun missing out on an early demise.

Daehyun smiles, looking over for a long while. “Think it’s just your heart speaking.”

Youngjae snorts. “Wow, now _you’re_ the one being edgy. Bet you’re going to quote John Green next.”

Scoffing, Daehyun twiddles the unlit stick between his fingers. “Have no idea who that is. In case you forgot, I don’t read.”

“I picked up smoking three years ago,” he continues, slotting the stick back into the carton. “Do you think it’s not too late to quit?”

“It’s not,” Youngjae earnestly returns, igniting a hearty snicker within the other. Youngjae presses his lips and musters up the most unamused expression he can.

“Well, let’s hope your book convinces me of it,” Daehyun sighs, resting his palms further back on the counter. His bruised brown eyes flicker over to Youngjae.

“What did you mean when you say _this will be a lot of people’s regrets_?” His smug grin clings to the edge of his thick lips. 

“Uh, you have family?” Youngjae provides matter-of-factly.

“You don’t know that.” Daehyun remains undeterred and he slips off the counter.

“Well, the average person has both parents, so I’d say it’s a pretty good guess.” Youngjae reclines in mild surprise when Daehyun places his palms on the countertop, this time essentially barricading Youngjae.

“Two can’t be counted as a lot.” He simmers into a teasing smile. “Will it be your regret too?” 

He guffaws hard when Youngjae widens his eyes in incredulity. “I’m flattered you’re this attached to me after one month, kid.”

“If it helps you sleep at night, then sure, old man,” Youngjae sighs, giving up on churning out a comeback. He plops onto the ground, brushing past Daehyun into the living room.

“Stop calling me kid when I’m just a year younger, or I’m going to keep calling you old man.”

Daehyun tails him out with his signature, annoying laugh. 

 

\--

 

Between the strands of auburn dawn and three hours of sleep, Youngjae rouses to a message from Daehyun. There’s a photo attached. Youngjae’s notebook lies in Daehyun’s palm with one wrinkled thumb in between, open and a chapter in.

_Bitterness._

_They can almost hear the taunting crunch of nicotine into her gaunt bones. She scrapes her daughter’s drool of her shoulder and puts her to sleep. The scent of lavender bleeds off her cheekbones into her coffee._

_To her, the suicidal are the most selfish. They dig a grave for themselves to rest in while their loved ones live with the void left behind._

The embarrassment mercilessly engulfs Youngjae. He rolls over onto his stomach, moans into his pillow and contemplates on flinging his phone into the wall. He should have never lent that book to Daehyun; now, he’ll be mocking him at every chance he gets.

His phone vibrates once more and he reluctantly peeks at it.

_Reading it on the bus now._

Youngjae hesitates for two minutes and writes back truthfully, _God, I wish I didn’t give it to you._

_Too bad_ , Daehyun replies swiftly. _When you become famous next time, I’ll sell this book for a thousand dollars._

Youngjae snorts, though the implicit words bubble in his tummy. _It’ll be worth more than that, idiot._

The buzz comes a moment later. _Arrogant prick. I’m coming over in the afternoon. What do you want for lunch?_

_But it’s Sunday,_ Youngjae types back. The initial surprise moulds into a silly grin, one he notices late.

_So, you’re busy? My god, do you actually have more than one friend?_

Youngjae rolls his eyes. _I’m not busy, douchebag. Just surprised. I want sesame chicken from Hanlei and some chilli fries._

_That baby bump’s going to become bigger in no time,_ Daehyun answers.

Youngjae can imagine his snobbish grin and the way the snarky words roll off his tongue. He smothers a soft laugh.

Youngjae hits back with something admirably stronger in half a minute. _You seem real obsessed with me being pregnant. I don’t kink shame but dude, that’s kind of creepy._

_Shut up, I’m trying to read. I’ll be over at one._

Youngjae smiles proudly to himself, knowing he’s won the battle. He tosses his phone aside and halts when he instinctively reaches for his computer. Youngjae decidedly heads to the bathroom first, showering and putting on one of his better shirts.

He distractedly attempts his assignment—the prompt of a thirty-five-year-old lady attracting several werewolves with her irresistible scent. It’s not rocket science to write since no one cares how or why it happened, but Youngjae often wastes his time thinking about what more he could do beyond the three thousand words worth of sex.

By the time he’s done writing, it’s fifteen minutes to one and he’s sporting a hard-on, the usual by-product of erotic scenes demanding his visualisation. He sprints to the bathroom and finishes in ten minutes, fixating more on how it’d feel for the woman to be filled to the brim.

Youngjae hastily exits the bathroom at the shrill of the doorbell, cheeks blooming with carmine and eyes glassy. He inhales deeply and opens the door to the scent of roasted chicken.

Daehyun is clad in a baggy shirt with his guitar case strapped to his back. He arches a brow at Youngjae. “Did you just wake up?”

“No,” Youngjae rasps under his breath. Daehyun drops the takeout boxes onto the coffee table and sprawls himself over the couch comfortably.

“If you weren’t sleeping, you were either drinking or jacking off,” Daehyun concludes, sparing Youngjae a teasing glance. “It’s the second, right?”

“Keep quiet.” Youngjae embarrassedly unpacks his carton from the bag, suppressing an instinctive smile at Daehyun’s irritating laughter.

“You decided to do a quickie right before I came, huh. How horny were you?” Daehyun sniggers. “Did the idea of me turn you on so much?”

Youngjae places down his food. He crawls over, grabs Daehyun by the collar and shakes him as hard as he can. Daehyun chortles even louder.

Youngjae releases him with an exasperated scoff. “I was trying to finish my assignment, you dick. I can’t help getting a boner from it.”

Daehyun grins at him, wiggling his brows as he stares up at the younger man. Youngjae curses at him under his breath and veers his attention back to his beloved—food.

“How long are you staying until?” Youngjae plops onto his butt and nibbles on his chicken. “I’ve got to head down to Gurogu in the evening to get a new charger for my laptop. Mine’s fried.”

“Is it near the stadium?” Daehyun questions. He reaches into Youngjae’s box and steals a chicken tender.

“No. It’s in some remote area,” Youngjae heaves. “I’m probably going to get lost since there’s no direct bus there.”

“I’ll drive you there. Just give me the address,” offers Daehyun lazily. 

Youngjae blinks and glimpses over. “You have a car?” 

Daehyun nods, chewing as boorishly as ever and disregarding Youngjae’s frown. Youngjae always assumed he didn’t, since Daehyun took the bus to work that time they met. Today, he’d taken the bus as well to wherever.

“Wait, why’d you take the bus today, then? Didn’t feel like driving?”

“Oh, I wanted to read your book,” Daehyun easily replies. 

The flush through Youngjae’s face is hard to fight, so the younger man preoccupies himself with his lunch. “Then, what about that time when we met? You went to work by bus. Were you lazy?”

Daehyun seems tongue-tied at this question, gaze flickering over to Youngjae’s eyes. Youngjae curiously gazes at him till Daehyun finally churns out a response.

“Uh, I was trying to make friends with you,” Daehyun confesses. His cheeks sag when he lies down on his side. It’s cute.

“You were trying to make friends with me?” Youngjae repeats in awe, heat prominently doubling while he’s too caught up to notice. Wow, he’d been joking that he was an irresistible guy that Daehyun would go so far as to keep their friendship, but he hadn’t known the man had already planned to befriend him seriously from the start.

“Why?” Youngjae unhands his cherished sesame chicken, turning around to look Daehyun in the eyes. Daehyun is sporting a deer in headlights look, seemingly quite taken aback by the query.

“You seemed like a nice person?” Daehyun unsurely returns.

“You look like… I don’t know, the typical friendly youngster, happy with his life and stuff.” A bout of awkwardness whelms Daehyun for a split second as he murmurs, “So I wanted to get to know you better.”

“Too bad. I’m not a zen hipster. You must be disappointed,” Youngjae mentions, grinning from ear to ear. 

It’s funny that he looked that way to Daehyun. He always presumed he looked like a mess, like one of those kids who waste their life with part-time jobs to keep up with their useless hobbies.

“I like this you better.” Daehyun pats Youngjae’s head, joining the younger man on the floor. He rests his hand on Youngjae’s thigh and switches on the television.

“Whiny, lazy porn writer with a big belly. That’s more interesting.”

“Screw you. You must have been seriously desperate for friends to seek some random stranger out,” Youngjae hits the rebound. He squirms slightly under Daehyun’s warm touch. Daehyun’s hand is significantly bigger than his.

“I was.” Daehyun dips his chicken into the curry sauce nonchalantly. “In case you don’t know, I don’t get a lot of chances to make friends.”

Youngjae shifts closer, remembering their first conversation beneath rainy nightfall. “Did something happen between you and your ex-friends? You can tell me about it. I’m a good person to bitch to.”

“No, they’re nice people,” Daehyun laughs, patting Youngjae’s thigh and bringing it up a tinge. “It’s not them. It’s me.”

“What happened?”

Daehyun pays no heed to his question and skims through the channels, lips absentmindedly curled. The well-arranged noises and hopeful voices clip off with every press of the button.

“Stuff. It’s not important.”

Youngjae folds his lips and goes back to quietly eating. Daehyun glances at him and chuckles lightly, settling on some preppy reality TV show. He speaks after a long moment of screaming and hair pulling from the television.

“Look at us. We’re almost hitting our thirties and we’re here watching two girls bicker over where to eat for lunch.” He rests his head on Youngjae’s broad shoulder, nestling to find a comfortable position.

“Change it to the news if it makes you feel better,” Youngjae drawls. “I’ve still got two years to go, FYI.”

“Lucky bastard.” Daehyun flutters his eyes close. In Youngjae’s peripheral vision, he can map out the curvature of Daehyun’s lashes.

“When you were younger, where did you see yourself at thirty years old?” Daehyun questions, stroking Youngjae’s thigh inattentively.

“Um… I’d be doing quite well in my career. Have a nice house of my own. What about you?”

“Hm.” Daehyun’s brows crease, though it barely looks as if he’s contemplating. “Married, probably. With a three-year-old daughter, if I’m lucky.” 

Daehyun emits a sigh and lets go of Youngjae’s leg. “I’m a pathetic man, Youngjae,” he laments. “I’m not even close to getting married.”

Youngjae furrows his brows and nudges Daehyun off him to look him in the eyes. “Don’t say that. Just because you’re not married now doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing. You’re still young.”

Daehyun tugs his lips to the side, absentmindedly surfing the channels. “I guess.”

“Daehyun, I mean it. You’re only twenty-nine. There are so many people who get married even later than that,” Youngjae earnestly states. “It doesn’t make you pathetic.”

“It’s not only that,” Daehyun exhales. He picks a nineties comedy film and places down the remote.

“My fiancée cheated on me.” He flexes his fingers and gives a laid-back shrug. His eyes are even more fatigued than they usually are.

The revelation stales in the atmosphere. “I’m sorry,” Youngjae’s reply comes belatedly, his voice small and his blinks timid. He’s not well-versed in relationships, the last one being six years ago in college. They all ended decently and the break-ups were mostly mutual. He could never imagine the pain of finding out he’s been giving his all to a person, only to get betrayed in return.

The indignation slowly courses through Youngjae’s bloodstream. How could she do that to Daehyun?

“Why does that make you pathetic? _She’s_ the one who’s pathetic,” Youngjae bites, anger materialising through his syllables. “I pity her for not being able to keep her legs shut. Fuck that desperate whore.”

Daehyun widens his eyes and amusedly stares at the younger man, muffling back a laugh. Youngjae flares his nostrils and raises his voice, “I’m serious. You’re such a great guy; how stupid is she to let you go? There’s something wrong with both her brain and her legs. She’s such a bitch.”

He wants to continue but Daehyun squeezes his cheek fondly, slurring the younger man’s words. Youngjae’s breathing momentarily halts when Daehyun melts into a charming simper, his trademark wrinkles cutting down his cheeks.

“Wow, I didn’t expect that outburst from you. When you’re not being a piece of shit, you can be kind of cute.” Daehyun tugs hard and Youngjae yelps, prying his hand off. 

Daehyun pats Youngjae’s back, unwinding with a little less weariness in his irises. He goes back to eating, sieving through the stained cartons.

“I found out four months after we got engaged. Already got a house and ordered all the furniture by then.” He prods several chicken pieces into his mouth, blubbering, “I told her I’d forgive her, but she didn’t even want to come back. Said she was tired of it all.”

“Can you believe that she was dating for a year behind my back?” Daehyun snorts. “Hell, she was planning on bailing a week before the wedding with her jobless boy toy to Bali. With the ring and all the money in my bank account.”

“She’s so horrible,” Youngjae blurts, brows furrowing in shock and indignation. His heart scrunches up within his ribcage. “How can somebody actually be so screwed up? She’s a human version of a leech.”

“Tell me about it.” The generic laugh track crackles from the TV, Daehyun’s nonchalant eyes fixated on the screen. 

“Seven years, Youngjae. I wasted seven years on her,” he hums, crossing his arms behind his head. “When we split, I didn’t know what the hell I was going to do. It felt like I lost everything.”

Youngjae flutters his lashes and gently squeezes Daehyun’s arm. “You avoided marrying a nasty, ungrateful bitch. It’s a blessing. Things would have been much worse if you went on.”

“True.” He swigs his drink, letting out a pleased grunt. “Wouldn’t have met you too, if I’d gone on with the marriage.”

“Aww. I’m flattered you’re this attached to me after one month, old man,” Youngjae mimics mockingly, though his cheeks bristle with a coy summer heat.

“I got nothing. You win,” Daehyun surrenders, sparing Youngjae a defeated chuckle.

Youngjae churns out a soft smile, earnestly locking eyes with Daehyun. “Seriously, though. She’s a bitch and she won’t go far in life. You’re a good person who deserves more than her. Karma’s going to hit her hard and you’re gonna be thankful as heck you managed to sidestep that horrible witch before it was too late.”

Daehyun sends back a minuscule grin. “Yeah. Honestly, I’m over her. Just kind of hung up over the fact that she fucked me over and I dumbly found out so late.”

He makes a face, drawling, “I want a refund for those seven years, damn it. All the crap I got for her, the time I wasted on her, all that bullshit she fed me.”

“You’ll find someone much better than her. Someone who deserves you.” Youngjae assures, positivity brimming in his words. “And all the happy times that’ll come will make up for it and more.”

Daehyun chuckles, his hand falling on Youngjae’s thigh again. “We’ll see.”

He looks a little less tired, like the things he said had been crushing down on his back for a long time. The darkness still crunches into his eyes but the stiffness in his shoulders has seeped away.

“Guess I’m stuck with you in the singles’ club for now, Youngjae.”

 

\--

 

“Kang Sora or Ha Jiwon?”

Daehyun clicks his tongue, thumbing his chin in deep thought. “That’s a tough one. They’re both my type.”

“Choose one,” Youngjae insists as they stroll down the dimly lit corridor. 

Copper lights paint their skin with jaundice, but Youngjae thinks of crowded metropolitan romance and cold hands. Skylines, falling snow, late nights and overtime, instead of sickness and wilting flowers he usually imagines.

His right hand brushes Daehyun’s hand and so, he apologises and tucks it into his pocket. Daehyun has a bag of mint gum swung over his shoulder, barely paying any attention to their accidental touches.

“Ha Jiwon. My mother loves Secret Garden, so she’d be over the moon if I married Gil Raim.”

They reach his doorstep and Youngjae unlocks the door with an exaggerated gasp. “I am _so_ disappointed in you. Do not talk to me ever again.”

Daehyun laughs while following him in, coolly tugging down his tie and throwing it with his suitcase onto a nearby chair. He’s clad in his work attire, checkered dress shirt wrapped snugly around his firm built. He looks smart, dependable, very handsome—like the lead of an office romance.

Youngjae’s eyes flicker away when Daehyun looks back briefly, vanishing into the kitchen.

“I’m eating the rest of your tapioca crackers,” he calls, crunching loudly.

The four walls of Youngjae’s dingy apartment have encased only his footsteps but now, Daehyun’s slippers are sprawled over the door mat on Saturdays. Youngjae misses Daehyun throughout the rest of the days. 

Today, it’s Friday. Maybe he’ll start coming over more often. Youngjae’s eyes flutter shut and he hears the fridge door slam, Daehyun done with his ransacking. It’s a bit weird that Daehyun never invites him over but it doesn’t bother Youngjae too much.

He stayed up last night to write an idea that suddenly came to mind. It was of a parent’s dream likened to Atlantis, where the protagonist builds her son up for years only to realise she had broken her only child. Underwater the corpse sunk like a rotten marionette, in a bathtub filled with bleach.

Some children love to blame their parents for everything, from their fears down to their every spoken syllable. Months ago, Youngjae wondered if a single loved one had opposed him, would he be here right now?

The couch sinks and Youngjae opens his eyes to the tones of rain and Daehyun’s silvery simper. He knits his brows together and interrogates, “What’s so funny?”

“I’ve been thinking this for a while now.” Daehyun muffles a snicker. “You’re kind of pretty for a guy.”

Youngjae squints, processing Daehyun’s grade-school insult and his contemptuous grin.

“That’s one way of coming out,” he counters sarcastically. He lifts his foot and shoves Daehyun’s knee roughly.

“Don’t you know? Chicks dig this look, you asshole. Ever thought about why Kim Heechul’s so popular?” Youngjae drawls, prodding Daehyun harder when the man sucks in a breath at the offending, grimy toes on his trousers.

“Yeah, sure.” Daehyun pushes him away with a strident chortle. “Anyway, I meant it as a compliment. Sort of. You could go be a model or something.”

“I almost became one, you know. I was scouted off the streets by JYP Entertainment to be a trainee when I was twelve,” Youngjae announces. “Too bad my parents said I was too young.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. You should be honoured; you could be talking to a world star right now.” Youngjae pats his chest proudly. A faint drizzle taps against the sills and stray drops ricochet off onto the floor.

“Please. You’d probably get into a scandal for your stomach once you debut.” He scoots towards the end of the sofa and lays his head in Youngjae’s lap, surprising the younger man.

“Jerk. My tummy only bulges after I eat, like everyone else,” Youngjae mutters, awkwardly finding a place to rest his arms. Daehyun’s eyes are shaped like almonds and he has a mole stamped onto his left cheek.

“Denial. How pitiful.” Daehyun shifts, his motions uncomfortably pressing into Youngjae’s lean thighs. “Hey, write a story about what I said.” He puts out his hands and gestures proudly. “The Chubby Fluffy.”

“That’s a horrible title, god. It sounds like a children’s book. What does fluffy even refer to?” Youngjae snorts, his voice softer than usual. Daehyun’s irises have a breathtaking shine to them.

“You.” Daehyun yawns, not bothering to cover his mouth. “Just to let you know, I got an offer from an entertainment agency too. My friend and I were busking and they wanted us to debut us straight away.”

“Wow, really? That’s amazing,” Youngjae blurts, Daehyun sinking into a smile. 

“I’m pretty awesome, aren’t I?”

“Honestly? Yeah,” Youngjae admits. “Did you not go for it?”

“I wanted to, but my friend said he wanted to finish college first,” Daehyun explains. “After he got into med school, he changed his mind and we just left it at there.”

“That sucks,” Youngjae breathes, amazed and a tad bit envious. Daehyun must have been skilled.

“Kinda does. It’s for the best, anyway. The limelight isn’t for me.” He carelessly scratches his abdomen and speculates, “Hey, if we’d both taken the offers, maybe we’d be celebrities now. Rivals, even.”

Youngjae puffs smugly. “Isn’t it obvious I’d be more popular than you, though?”

“That’s true,” Daehyun sighs. “People love talentless celebs with a pretty face more.”

Youngjae threateningly raises a hand but Daehyun catches his wrist faster with a smug look.

“You know, I used to love playing the guitar like crazy,” he reminisces, absentmindedly resting Youngjae’s hand on his chest. “I spent my high school days composing songs and flunking my classes because of it.”

“Do you still compose?” Youngjae tugs back his hand, heart somehow fluttering at the idea of peering into Daehyun’s more private thoughts. “I want to see the songs you’ve written.”

“I stopped a long time ago. Threw out the ones I wrote, too,” Daehyun fills in, lifting himself up from Youngjae’s lap. He wrings an arm around Youngjae’s shoulders. 

“Aww. Why?”

Nostalgia permeates Daehyun’s dull eyes, a fond smile seeping into his cheeks. “I grew up. College started getting in the way with all the commitments and I got less passionate about it over time. Slowly, I just stopped playing.”

“It’s funny. I was so sure I was going to do it for life when I was young, but here I am.” Daehyun veers his head towards Youngjae and provides, “I think you’re amazing for loving something for so long.”

“Honestly, I don’t know if it’s a passion or a habit at this point,” Youngjae confesses, Daehyun’s words ringing hollowly in his gut. “You look like you still love guitar a lot.”

“It’s something that’s refreshing but familiar to me, so I guess it made it easy to get back into it,” Daehyun mulls thoughtfully. He strums the air like plucking out strings from nowhere.

“Damn, now I really want to play something. Should have stopped by my place and brought my guitar with me.”

“I can go over to your place next time so you don’t have to make an extra trip,” Youngjae suggests in a rather eager tone. “My place sucks, anyway. I don’t know why you keep coming here.”

“You’re the person who gave me drunk coffee as a tip and didn’t have money for a bus trip. Are you sure you’ve got enough money for transport?” Daehyun teases. Youngjae elbows him with a pout.

“I’ll think about it.” His hand finds its usual position on Youngjae’s thigh, squeezing lightly. “I don’t mind coming over. I like your apartment.”

“Why? It’s so cramped.”

“It feels like home,” Daehyun unabashedly replies, eyes raking over coffee-stained pillars and years of loneliness to Youngjae’s surprised look.

“Wow, Daehyun…” Youngjae’s shoulders fall and he coos, “I’m flattered you’re this attached to me after-”

“Knew you’d pull that shit.” Daehyun roughly wrenches the boy into his chest and covers his mouth, Youngjae struggling to escape as he dissolves into lovely laughter. _Home_ , the word stains Youngjae’s ribcage and he simmers into the warmth of his only friend.

He finally manages to pry Daehyun’s hand away from his mouth, breathless in a manner sweeter than he expected. “Are you scared I’ll mess up your house?” He presses, aware he’s still gingerly clasping onto Daehyun’s hand. “I won’t. I promise.”

Daehyun’s lips curl. “Sorry, I don’t trust you, kid. Don’t need a bigger mess at home.” He nudges the younger man off him and ruffles his hair. “Someday, alright?”

Youngjae smiles.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

**[open-ended](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuC2sc-1CMU&list=PLflKpEjRZwlfbseXgO4AlUJqjzOnGqPKe) **

_Daehyun/Youngjae_

 

 

 

Youngjae learns again the downsides to timelessness when the irregular hours of writing non-stop gets to him. Blue light makes him nauseous and his internal clock does a bad job of differentiating morning and night. He vomits out bland sex so repetitively he wonders if he’s anymore liberated than the stereotypical white-collar worker he shunned five years ago. Thirty bucks for five thousand words and the freedom of working wherever one pleases. Youngjae gets tired of writing sometimes.

Timelessness is a nightmare of listlessness and stale misery, and all of it decomposes when Daehyun comes over. He’s a breath of chapped lips and matte eyes, a living narrative where his gruff words become the last thing Youngjae thinks about before he sleeps. Youngjae’s bookmark is his heart and he waits for the next page with bated breath.

Today, they’re perched by Times Square on a Saturday night, Daehyun hunched over his guitar as the forgettable faces breeze by. A few halt for a moment in their strides to spare some change. Other wanderers have their heartstrings tugged along by Daehyun’s melodic cadences, staying for much longer.

The autumn wind whispers against Youngjae’s flushed cheeks. His view overlooks the urban conversations of the crowd and glittery, upscale boutiques. It’s cold and he’s wrapped up in Daehyun’s coat, evanescing into Daehyun’s sleek strums. The technique is called fingerstyle guitar, so Daehyun mentioned, that lets the guitar sing in place of a missing voice. 

Daehyun has played eight songs and this one is called Candles, unassuming and diffident. He looks charming under the glimpse of artificial lights and Christmas decorations put up too early. Youngjae zones out gazing at Daehyun’s profile—how his thick lips protrude below his strong nose, how his face looks longer from the side. 

He belatedly notices Daehyun smirking at him.

“I know I’m handsome, but you could be a little more subtle when you’re ogling.” Daehyun strums a finale that wilts into the remnants of sentimental autumn. A small lady with wistful eyes places down a ten-dollar bill into his guitar case and spares Daehyun a mellow smile, pacing back to her boyfriend.

“Your lips look like exploded hot dogs,” Youngjae says indifferently, looking past Daehyun at the petite woman interlinking arms with her partner. He lets Daehyun jab him and nearly stumbles off the kerb. 

The quietness between them is punctured with words left behind by the flickering crowds. Youngjae’s fingers are numb despite them having been buried in his pockets. Daehyun probably has it a lot worse.

“There are a lot of couples out here tonight,” Youngjae remarks, nestling into Daehyun’s cashmere coat. It smells of old spices. He hopes Daehyun forgets to take it back.

Daehyun once more forgoes the ashen cigarettes and pops some gum into his mouth. “Feeling lonely?” He teases.

“I should be asking you that. You should have seen that shit-eating grin of yours when that girl requested Maroon 5,” Youngjae sniggers, victoriously baring his teeth when he renders Daehyun speechless.

“Can’t a guy be happy he’s getting song requests?” Daehyun eventually sighs. “I wasn’t expecting it, to be truthful.”

“Why not? You played really well,” Youngjae returns blithely. “Anyway, she was cute, so don’t feel bad for being so obvious.” He puckers his lips and scours the throng, lamenting, “There was a hot girl drinking coffee here just now. I was going to show her to you. Too bad she’s gone.”

“You're desperate,” Daehyun chortles, handing his guitar over to Youngjae to gather his change. The younger man eagerly plucks at the metal strings and out erupts several dissonant chords. Daehyun raises his voice warningly but fails to hide his amused simper.

“If you’re thinking of getting a girlfriend, I can introduce you to my colleagues,” Daehyun brings up. “Lots of single ladies in my office. They’re pretty nice.”

“Why are you passing them over, then? You’re trying to screw me over, aren’t you?” Youngjae jokingly accuses, earning himself a light smack across the head.

“Ungrateful brat. I’m just trying to help the disadvantaged.” Daehyun swiftly examines him with a sympathetic countenance.

“Screw you. I’ll find somebody faster than you will,” Youngjae grumbles, hugging Daehyun’s guitar tight.

Daehyun stacks the crumpled notes together and places it with the clutter of grubby coins into a Ziploc bag. “I’d like to see you try when I’m the only person you’ve met with for the whole month.” He pats the younger man’s hair and takes back his guitar.

“Though, if you did go out, you’d probably have no trouble. The women nowadays love guys who look just like girls.”

Youngjae had the inkling that the initial compliment was too good to be true. He gets up and nearly walks away when Daehyun hastily grasps his wrist.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It was just a joke. Don’t leave,” he coaxes. “You’re the one who told me that, anyway.”

“Seriously. Are you that lonely that you’d stoop to seeing me as a girl?” Youngjae deadpans, staring down at the older man. Daehyun hoists his guitar over his shoulder and pats Youngjae’s butt cheekily, the younger man jerking in response. 

Daehyun loops an arm around Youngjae’s waist. “I’m being honest, though. You’d probably be a 10 out of 10 if you cross-dressed.”

“First, the pregnant kink. Now, you want me to wear a dress,” Youngjae groans in repulsion. “You seriously need a girlfriend, old man.”

“We’re a good match, then,” Daehyun points out. The area underneath his cheekbones is peeling, dead skin adorning his bluish cheeks. “I’m kinky and you write porn. I could give you some inspiration.”

“I’ll give you a call if I’m ever assigned pregnancy porn, then.”

The frigid air pricks bitterly at their flesh as though looking to ease its grievances. Youngjae envisages a frosty white expanse swamping the pavements, despondent lovers leaving footprints that melt away in spring. A metaphor that frozen scars can be forgotten with time, perhaps. That brighter days of hope and faith await if one can brave through the envious blizzard.

Daehyun’s arm is secure around his waist. “Have you written anything new?” The older man questions.

“For work?” 

“For me.” 

Youngjae bundles his tickled cheeks into his scarf. “You seriously want pregnancy porn?”

Daehyun heaves and lightly knocks their heads together. “I can never have a normal conversation with you.”

Laughing softly, Youngjae divulges, “Yeah, I’ve written something new. It’s nothing great. Just a short story about high school romance.”

“Sounds nice,” Daehyun hums encouragingly, fog materialising before his lips. “Let me read it when you’re done.”

“Give me back the garbage you borrowed from me first,” Youngjae snorts. He absentmindedly counts the rhythm of their synchronised steps. One, two, one, two.

“Don’t say that. I’ve got one more chapter to go,” Daehyun mirthfully declares. “You don’t know this, but I wake up an hour early every morning, just so I can read your book on the bus to work. I'm a slow reader, though.”

Youngjae stops counting and raises his head. He meets Daehyun’s dusky eyes and the numbers drizzle down into his palpitating pulse. One, two, one, two.

“Liar,” Youngjae breathes, his voice shrivelling at an alarming rate. “Bet you didn’t even read it.”

“You don’t trust me?” Daehyun exhales. His hand slips a little and Youngjae curls his fingers in discomfort.

Daehyun begins humming a low tune, voice deep and sandpapery along the edges. “ _He set fire to his lungs and ripped out a flood from her eyes, one that would have put out the flames if he’d made her cry earlier_.”

“Oh my god,” Youngjae bleats, grimacing furiously while Daehyun laughs in satisfaction. “You idiot, don’t quote from the book. I shouldn’t have given it to you. I’m so stupid.”

“I really liked that line, though,” Daehyun hums contently, unwinding his arm to pop another strip of gum into his mouth. “I was wondering. Do you leave pieces of you in every book you write?”

His words are surprisingly poetic and his eyes are earnest. After an uncharacteristic pause, Youngjae murmurs, “Uh, I don’t know.”

Daehyun tenderly messes up Youngjae’s hair. “You’re beautiful inside out, kid.” He says it in an airy voice, not too loud but soft enough that his words can be questioned. Youngjae isn’t sure if Daehyun wanted him to hear it or not.

They capsize in a spell of silence. Youngjae plucks out the extra pack of gum he bought on the way here and hands it over.

Daehyun gratefully pockets it. “Thanks. I was running out.”

“Really? That’s a good thing,” Youngjae says, watching the fog from his lips disperse into night blues.

Daehyun nods. “I’m wasting a lot of money on gum. You should compensate me.”

“You’re probably saving a lot more from not buying cigarettes,” Youngjae reasons. “So I’m actually helping you save. You’ll be a billionaire at this rate.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?” Daehyun swoops his arm around Youngjae’s waist once again as they cross the road, sneakers tapping the iced gravel. 

“You know, it’s difficult to quit. I tend to smoke when I’m at work and when I’m at home,” Daehyun mentions.

“It’s okay. You’re making the effort. Rome wasn’t built in a day,” Youngjae encourages sincerely. He hesitates before offering, “If you’re stressed out, you can always call and talk to me. I’ll listen, really.”

“I doubt you’d want to listen to me complaining about messed up invoices.” Daehyun puffs out another misty cloud, much more innocent than the soot he used to wheeze. “Anyway, how are the applications going?”

“One replied,” Youngjae shares. Bashfulness clips away at his following words. “They, um, said I was good, but they’ve got their hands full. They’re looking for a stand-in editor, though.”

“That sucks,” Daehyun grunts. “But hey, someone else knows how great you are too, so that’s a good thing. Did you take up the offer?”

“They probably said those things to let me down easily. And yeah. Figured I could use the extra income.” He buries his hands deeper into his pockets, sheepishly lowering his head.

“Come on. Don’t think about yourself that way.” Daehyun hums in thought and asks, “You said you’re paid after every assignment for your current job, right? Five thousand words each?”

“Yeah. Thirty dollars for one piece,” Youngjae provides.

“How fast do you write?”

“About two thousand words per hour on a good day.”

“Wow, that’s crazy fast. Back in college, I could barely write a thousand-word essay over three months.” Daehyun whistles, calculating the numbers in his head. 

“So, you earn about twelve dollars per hour.” Daehyun folds his lips. “It’s enough to pay your bills, right?”

“Just barely.” Youngjae shrugs. “My parents help me out every now and then.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Daehyun returns, fingers drumming the rhythm of rain into Youngjae’s side. “Hey, let me stay over tonight.”

Youngjae perks up. “Stay over?” 

“Yeah. I don’t smoke as much when I’m with you.”

They go home with a cup of hot cocoa each, mellow delight bristling the hair down their arms. Youngjae rolls out the thin mattress Junhong uses every time he sleeps over and they talk through several soda cans. Youngjae takes up Daehyun’s matchmaking offer and Daehyun says if it doesn’t work out, they’ll drop by the nearby bar and he’ll be Youngjae’s wingman. Their conversation is left open-ended when Daehyun falls asleep. 

It’s cold. The moonlight blotches along Daehyun’s face at an unflattering angle, revealing his acne scars and how his mouth hangs slightly ajar. The sight certainly isn’t picturesque or mesmerising, like those his teenage self read in novels underneath the blanket. Sleeping is oft likened to an unconscious beauty pageant, where one falls helplessly deeper with how flawless the other looks.

Maybe it’s because Daehyun’s just a friend, and Youngjae isn’t a girl in stockings who admires sharp jawlines and masculinity. Still, Youngjae peeks down at him from his bed and bites back a good joke about Rapunzel on a budget. If only Daehyun was awake to hear it. He’d probably wrench him down and pride himself on saving the princess in three seconds.

Youngjae reaches down and gently brushes Daehyun’s hair back, resting precariously on the edge of his bed. His eyelids cascade like the dripping tap in his bathroom but his eyes remain open. Youngjae thinks of children stargazing in their bedrooms with glow-in-the-dark stickers.

He swears when Daehyun starts snoring.

 

\--

 

Youngjae gets papercuts from handling the bills for this winter. He manages to pay a little more of his share with Daehyun’s treats on weekends but he still needs to withdraw the monthly allowance wired to his bank account. His father calls and asks him to visit soon, wishing him the best and to always persevere.

Daehyun finishes _How We Breathe_ in the end of October and pockets his newly bought bookmark before returning Youngjae’s novel. The next book he borrows is titled _Habits of the Heart_ , where a forty-five-year-old man embarks on a journey back to his hometown after a bitter divorce and a lost custody battle. It’s short, and Daehyun finishes it three days later.

Not all roads have ends, Youngjae figures out when Daehyun suggests on a whim that they go travelling around the world. Sometimes, you wind up at square one again and the circular journey is just a million miles of lost time and mindless footsteps. No one promises you anything and you learn that you can never tell if the path is a one-way of no turning back, or if you’re walking in circles. 

Maybe the world is cruel and it’s both at once. Time is one-way and you can spend it in endless circles. Whatever it is, Daehyun has become Youngjae’s reference point in a world where the clock dictates nothing. He nags Youngjae to sleep when it’s midnight and reminds him to grab a bite in the morning so his gastric doesn’t act up again.

Home is the scent of Daehyun’s shampoo and his nasal laughter. Youngjae waits for Daehyun to chase away the shadows on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays.

Afternoon falls apart onto the floors of Youngjae’s apartment as he sieves through more freelance writing advertisements. Over the years, he’s learnt that those guaranteeing a luxurious wage working from home are simply scams, but he still tries them anyway. As he types up the seventh email for today, the doorbell rings.

“Let yourself in! The door’s not locked,” he calls, back facing the door with how he’s leaning against the armrest.

Daehyun’s sodden footsteps drag across the floor as the door clicks behind him. He wanders into Youngjae’s sight as he untangles his scarf, shaking his head.

“I can’t believe you just left your door unlocked. That could have been a burglar.” The speckles of snow still trapped in his hair make him seem more endearing than usual.

“Still a better alternative to you,” Youngjae returns. 

Daehyun paces away and Youngjae shrills when cotton suddenly swathes his mouth. The orange scarf tickles Youngjae’s nose and so does the whisper by his ear.

“Hand over your money and nobody gets hurt,” Daehyun’s words taper off into a gravelly chuckle and he ties his scarf around Youngjae’s neck, patting the man’s head.

“Let’s go out and eat. There’s a two-for-one special at Myuji.”

“You know it’s probably a holiday discount for couples, right? We’re going to look really sad,” he remarks lightly, tucking the warm scarf beneath his chin and putting aside his laptop. Daehyun smells more of mint gum than nicotine nowadays.

“I’ll put on a wig if it bothers you that much.” Daehyun roams to Youngjae’s room and grabs his coat, draping it over the younger man.

“I don’t want my girlfriend to be ugly,” Youngjae sulks, blowing up his cheeks. It’s a secret that he indulges in the way Daehyun takes care of him though he refuses the nickname of ‘kid’. Their one-year difference has bestowed him with the benefit of having an older brother and a good friend all in one. 

“Brat,” Daehyun snorts, lightly slapping the boy’s puffed-up face. “Don’t act cute. You’re ruining my appetite.” 

He plays with Youngjae’s cheeks, tugging and pulling to his heart’s content—which unfortunately equates to Youngjae’s threshold of tolerance. They swing into Daehyun’s oxford blue BMW, Daehyun rubbing his punched stomach.

“I’ve finished the song. Picked out my most favourite parts from your book,” Daehyun hums, cruising out of the car park. Youngjae peeps at him and frames out his side profile, one hand lax on the steering wheel with his beige hoodie drooping over his shoulders. His peach fuzz is starting to show.

“Nice. Don’t forget to play it for me later. I’d like to see how you butchered it,” Youngjae whistles. Downtown scenery spills over the windscreen, washing out transparency for passing faces and grimy road signs. 

“Kind as ever, aren’t you, Youngjae?” Daehyun wheezes, familiar amusement grazing his upturned lips. They immerse in quietness, neither of them bothering to switch on the radio.

“I’m excited,” Youngjae says after a while. The words are all Daehyun needs to melt into a broad grin, sighing once more as he rests his free hand on Youngjae’s thigh. It has become a bad habit of his, like an oblivious compulsion that has replaced the drawing of cigarettes.

“I’ll try not to disappoint, then.” There go the usual strokes along denim jeans in the cold seasons. Touch, brush, caress. A gentle squeeze every now and then that has Youngjae folding his lips. It’s uncomfortable and he worries for summer as his shorts are thin.

Youngjae says nothing as always. He’s too old to be so shy when they’re both men.

In a corner booth of the restaurant, they skim through the menu and make their orders. Daehyun nudges him under the table and asks why Youngjae didn’t bother wearing a dress here, the younger man rolling his eyes in return.

The kimchi stew bubbles in Youngjae’s stomach and warms him up quickly, tangy taste sizzling on his palate. They talk about the soccer game last night and everything within the span of hours they had been separated.

“What did your father say?” Daehyun gurgles, pelts of soup sprinkling the table. Youngjae gripes in distaste.

“Nothing much. He said to visit soon,” he says through slurps, “and to push on.”

“Well, he won’t have to worry about that.” Daehyun’s entire face is obscured by his bowl. “You’re a perseverant guy.”

His praise is misplaced so despite the kind intention, it frames the small cavity within Youngjae’s chest. Youngjae scoffs, “I’m not.”

“You are,” Daehyun points out matter-of-factly.

“I’m not.”

Daehyun snorts. “You’ve kept at this for years, kid. Give yourself some credit.”

“I’m really not,” Youngjae drawls, gulping down his meal. “I can’t give up because it’s not an option.”

Daehyun furrows his brows. “What do you mean by that?”

“There’s nothing else I can do besides writing,” Youngjae fills in bluntly. “Didn’t finish college so I don’t have a degree. I have no job experience, either. Writing is all I have.”

Quietness stales between them, Youngjae momentarily regretting his words. He could have shut up and let it go but he just had to be dramatic.

“…Sorry,” Daehyun coughs. “I didn’t mean that.”

Youngjae lets out a faint breath. “It’s not a big deal. I was just saying.”

Daehyun stares at him and shoves another pile of meat into his mouth. “You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Youngjae says, flitting his lashes like paper folds. He pokes at his lunch and confesses quietly, “It’s a sore spot.”

“You’ll get there someday, Youngjae,” Daehyun genuinely convinces. “I know you will. You’re an amazing writer and someone’s going to pick you up soon.”

“I hear that a lot from my brother,” Youngjae states, annoyance unconsciously pinching his words. “Gets kind of tiring.”

“I mean it, Youngjae. It just takes time.”

“Well, I’ve been trying all these years, hoping I’ll be able to make something out of my shitty writing, but I’m not getting anywhere,” Youngjae snaps. “You know, sometimes I look at myself and I think, wow, how much more of a failure can I become? It’s been so many years and I’ve still done nothing.”

His words slither away a conviction that lasted too long. He bites his lips and prods aside his empty bowl. “Sorry,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t have lashed out at you. It’s not your fault; I’m just being a bitch.”

Daehyun gazes at him with short blinks. “I didn’t know you felt this way,” he breathes, blue evaporating from his words.

“I don’t tell people often,” Youngjae admits softly as he shrivels into his coat. “You’re the first.”

He plays with the lint on his clothes and wheezes lightly, “Ignore me. I’m in a bad mood after my father called.”

Daehyun delves into what seems like hundred-feet-deep thoughts. He lifts his stare to meet Youngjae’s eyes with utmost seriousness. “I’m your friend. If anything’s bothering you, you know I’m here for you.”

“Do what makes you happy,” he offers eventually. “If it’s hard to choose, do what your heart wants.”

“My heart wants to write but my stomach wants to eat,” Youngjae huffs, lightening the sombre mood he had conjured with an exaggerated sulk. “We can’t all have what we want.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not good at giving advice.” Daehyun massages the back of his neck.

“Don’t worry about it. I’d be an idiot if you solved something I’ve been trying to for years.” Youngjae pats his tummy and grins, chubby cheeks prominently drawing out beneath the light. “Let’s go get some ice cream. I’m tired of this depressing mood.”

“In this weather?” Daehyun squints at him in disbelief.

“Why not?” Youngjae challenges cheekily.

Daehyun pointedly deadpans, “The temperature’s almost negative, dumbass.”

“If you don’t want it, I’ll go get it myself.” Youngjae sends him a challenging look and squeezes out from the booth, spinning his head back when Daehyun takes his hand.

“Alright, alright. Wait for me,” he sighs, a relenting, translucent smile stretching up to his engraved dark circles. “I can never win when it comes to you.”

Eventide collapses into snow linens but the sweet sting over Youngjae’s hand lingers like an unforgettable afterthought. Daehyun suggests buying back groceries so they don’t have to go out for dinner again with the winter so merciless. He carries most of the bags home, insultingly citing Youngjae’s frail legs as a concern.

After a chapter of fumbling in the kitchen and Daehyun’s boorish chewing as commas, they settle in the living room with Daehyun’s guitar. There has been a lump trapped within Youngjae’s throat since the brush of their fingers, but Youngjae insists it is the clingy leftover of their greasy lunch.

The ceiling light is murky, varnishing the four pillars with agedness and grunge. Daehyun leisurely tunes his guitar as Youngjae watches, legs folded against his chest.

“Did you really write it based on _How We Breathe_?” Youngjae asks, head tilting one way.

“Yeah.” Daehyun arches a brow as his fingers run over wires. “Are you going to take back your permission and sue me for copyright?”

Youngjae nods, hiding a simper behind his knees. “You’re an idiot. I can’t believe you really did it.”

“I got inspired.” Daehyun mirrors his grin before warning, “Don’t laugh, okay? Or I’ll hit you.”

His strums are a language of their own, composed from familiar tongues in foreign cities. He begins with a laden hesitance as his fingernails catch the strings. Sew, sew, sew till a satin harmony weaves into Youngjae’s hastening heartbeat. 

The song bites like drugstore absinthe, pungent and acidic. It scrapes down the throat and tells of just how resentful a person can get. Between the pages, Youngjae penned down how a man dragged his lover into the landfill so they would both be cremated, even though her lungs were fine. He remorselessly left her behind to suffer with the memories of first love and interlocked hands in May to escape his own hell.

Daehyun’s voice meshes in the missing lavender. Bruised and battered, buried under the guise of barren eyes, yet blatant for all to see.

_He breathes like every breath hurts. She breathes like she wants to die._

Daehyun’s voice is husky and thick, like how it would feel if the sky melted over the earth. He has never sung to Youngjae properly—besides his few hums here and there—since his guitar engulfs both the melody and the harmony.

_He misses his daughter’s first, second, third birthday. She misses her daughter’s sweet sixteen._

Perhaps it’s the sentimental mood that has Youngjae’s heart hammering till he feels lightheaded. His hands itches for something warm to clutch and he intertwines his own fingers tight, listening to the rich chords from Daehyun’s throat.

It’s lovely. Youngjae evanesces into Daehyun’s singing till the arpeggios stop and the world moves again.

Daehyun breaks the silence. “Not bad, huh?” 

He puts his guitar aside and glances elsewhere, mouth running. “Bet you know now why I was scouted. It’s been a while since I sung so I’m pretty rusty. My friend was always the better singer, to be honest.”

“I love it,” Youngjae cuts off his rambling. He edges forward with a soft smile as Daehyun’s eyes find his between the layers of air. “It’s really beautiful.” 

“Thank you. Your singing is amazing,” Youngjae’s wholeheartedness spills over unabashedly.

“Don’t be so nice to me. You’re creeping me out,” Daehyun scoffs, though the undeniable joy waltzes into his eyes. He slings an arm around Youngjae’s shoulders and hauls the boy over.

“Hope it makes up for today,” he mentions. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you upset.”

“It’s fine. I was being a crybaby.” Youngjae slides down slightly and tucks himself into Daehyun’s arm, earning himself a look of amused bewilderment.

“It’s because you keep thinking this way that I’m the first person you’ve told.” He rubs Youngjae’s shoulder tenderly. “Let it out, kid. I’m all ears.”

“You make me sound like a charity case,” Youngjae grumbles as they submerge in a shallow silence. He glances over the mundane walls, mapping out sharp corners and traces of wear and tear.

“Do you regret what you’re doing now?” Daehyun asks in a low tone.

“A little.” Youngjae shrugs. “It sucks that I don’t know if I’m making the right choice,” he nestles against Daehyun’s chest and swears he feels Daehyun tense. 

“If I quit now, I’ll have to move back home, go to college again and do something new. My parents will have to pay for it all over again and all these crappy years will go to waste,” he heaves, biting his tongue before decidedly continuing. “If I go on, the years are just going to pile up and I’ll have more to regret when I finally throw in the towel.”

“It’s tough,” Daehyun murmurs. “You’re brave for chasing after what you want.”

“You sure are optimistic,” Youngjae puffs. “It's more like I'm stupid.”

Daehyun frowns. “You’re not stupid. You’re brave. There aren’t many who dare chase after their dreams.” 

“That's because they weren’t stupid and weighed the consequences of it,” Youngjae hits back, grinning when Daehyun sends him a glare. The echoes of Daehyun's coarse singing pirouettes in the back of his head.

“I have no one to blame but myself. I romanticised the whole idea of making a living through writing,” Youngjae sighs. “Then again, writers tend to romanticise every little thing.” 

“They do?”

“They write a trip to the supermarket like they’re on a shopping spree in Paris,” Youngjae snorts, diffusing more into Daehyun’s heat when the older man laughs.

“It’s a talent to see everything as beautiful,” Daehyun hums.

“We’re pretentious. Don’t try to make it sound pretty.”

Daehyun chuckles. “You’ve really only ever told me about this? What about your family?”

Youngjae shuts his eyes, finding solace in Daehyun’s clasp. It’s nice to be held like this. He fleetingly wonders if this is why girls fawn over the amorous male leads in dramas. Those that swear to protect their girlfriends forever.

“It’s humiliating to tell them,” Youngjae confesses feebly. “I’m a complete dumbass. I can’t believe I had the audacity to be so confident at that time I dropped out. I’ve basically become a laughing stock.”

“Don’t think that way. You have nothing to be embarrassed about,” Daehyun crossly says. “What the hell. What kind of parents makes their own son feel like shit?”

“No, it’s not like that. My family’s supportive of me,” Youngjae clarifies hastily, chewing on his lower lip when his words fail him. His parents are old and he can’t even give them a cent back for all the money they’ve wasted on him. If they mocked him and cut him off for being such a failure, it would be better than now.

Quietude wafts between the spaces of their breathing. Daehyun leans down and rests his head against Youngjae’s.

“Don’t beat yourself up for things not going the way you expected, Youngjae. You shouldn’t be embarrassed because of it,” Daehyun breathes.

“I’m such an idiot. I wasted five years and I did absolutely nothing,” Youngjae’s words barely come out audible. He bats his eyelashes when Daehyun delicately rubs their heads together.

“Stop saying you’re stupid. It’s not your fault things didn’t go the way you hoped for. You tried, and you’re brave for doing so.” He shifts to face Youngjae, smile placating like a dew drop at the hem of dawn and dusk. “It’s okay to regret some things. No one can guarantee how things turn out so don’t feel humiliated.”

“You’ve gained experience from these few years so that counts as something, right?” Daehyun presses encouragingly, nudging the boy. “You’ve gotten better in writing over the years.”

Youngjae gingerly answers, “I guess.”

“Then, you didn’t waste those years,” Daehyun concludes. “Besides, if you hadn’t gone into writing, you wouldn’t have met me.”

“Another reason I should have quit earlier.”

Daehyun rolls his eyes, Youngjae’s laughter painting plum on the walls. Daehyun eventually chuckles along, two men guffawing at stupid, snappy rebounds.

“I feel like I’m looking into a mirror sometimes,” Daehyun remarks in amusement, leaning more against the other man.

Youngjae straightens up instinctively. “Has this happened to you too?”

“No,” Daehyun chuckles, patting Youngjae’s head like a big brother would. “Here, how about you give yourself a year and a half? If things don’t work out, then you can reconsider your plans. Give yourself a chance to do what you want.”

Youngjae has done this numerous times over the five years he has been away from home. Promises of one more year, another two months, just three weeks are tossed out the window every time he sets a lease on his piteous wasteland of a writing career. The blind faith of his childish heart drowns him with the laughable glitter that spells _someday._ Along the way, he began giving in so he wouldn’t have to face his family back home.

Yet, somehow, the notion seems so novel when it spins from Daehyun’s dry lips. He has someone he is accountable to, which makes the difference, Youngjae reasons. Or maybe it’s assuring to hear the suggestion from someone who thumbs away the sauce on his cheek. Someone who chides him for not wearing gloves in the winter, whom Youngjae trusts to know the world so much better.

“Okay. That’s a good start. I’ll write and if things don’t work out by... June in 2012? I’ll think about venturing into something else,” Youngjae surmises, resting his head more on Daehyun as he admires his sturdiness. “Thanks for listening to me. It means a lot.”

“Don’t worry about it. Are you tired?”

“Nah.” Youngjae glimpses at the clock and hopefully questions, “Are you going to go home soon or are you staying over? It’s pretty late.”

“Sleeping here. I’m too lazy to drive home,” Daehyun yawns, messing up Youngjae’s hair. “Hey, I want to wash up. Lend me some clothes to sleep in.” He tugs at his collar and complains, “Ugh, my sweater’s tight. It’s getting harder to breathe.”

“It makes you look sexy, though,” Youngjae points out. Daehyun sends him a look of askance and the younger man blithefully chortles.

“Don’t try to butter me up as thanks. I’m expecting you to treat me to a meal.” Daehyun stands and Youngjae tails him like a puppy, his pulse still emphasised from the smithereens of Daehyun’s song.

He gets his baggier clothes and wanders back to see Daehyun topless in the bathroom. He is tanned like the Busan summers have never truly left him, and his back muscles span out thickly behind his shoulders. 

Daehyun glances over and takes the clothes. “Thanks.”

Youngjae returns to the living room with his stomach in knots, finding it hard to breathe from the staccato of his heartbeat. It’s another spell of sanguineness that sweet-talks him into believing things will be different and the pages will come apart into better binders next year.

He’s lucky to have Daehyun as a friend.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

**[open-ended](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuC2sc-1CMU&list=PLflKpEjRZwlfbseXgO4AlUJqjzOnGqPKe) **

_Daehyun/Youngjae_

 

 

 

Daehyun forgets to introduce Youngjae to his female colleagues, but Youngjae does not remember their agreement anyway. The seasons expire but the habits of their hearts remain, in which Daehyun stays over on Friday nights and Youngjae waits.

Days get warmer as winter dies. Every night, Youngjae listens to the tempo of Daehyun’s breathing. Sometimes, he memorises Daehyun’s features into the back of his eyelids, just before his dreams deluge him. Sharp, strong, sombre. Daehyun suggests swinging by the pub to hitch a one night stand but Youngjae complains that Daehyun would probably hog all the girls.

Daehyun starts coming over on random weekdays despite having work the day after. Whenever he feels like it, really. After multiple complaints of having to drive home late, one of Daehyun’s suits finds its space within Youngjae’s cupboards. Youngjae washes and irons it more meticulously than his own clothes.

Their cycle escalates beyond hope. Daehyun says it’s his favourite suit so he starts sleeping over more often, late night conversations lengthened by counterproductive coffee. Youngjae does nothing to stop it.

It’s funny how they still have so much to talk about when their lives are excruciatingly humdrum and they see each other too much for their own good. The comicality evolves into intrigue and Youngjae begins a new story sans autobiography. It’s about friendship between two men, yet somehow, the romantic undertones keep materialising unintentionally.

The keyboard clacks start to get on Youngjae’s nerves on a late Wednesday morning. He has two thousand words fleshed out of a teacher-student sex scene where the bad boy takes his married teacher against the desk. He should be used to envisioning this sort of theatrical love affair but apparently, his junior below never gets tired.

At least it shows his libido is still functioning. Youngjae claps his laptop shut and flops onto his bed, shimmying out of his shorts. He smears the Vaseline onto his palm and strokes his length.

The restlessness whelms him once his ministrations prove to be pointless. His erection lingers and he grunts in frustration when he ultimately fails to relieve himself. These are the downsides to being single and writing erotica for a living.

A wisp of his writing dawns upon his posture on the bed. Youngjae blinks away the fleeting thought but it comes back to bite him when he simmers into the viewpoint of his misused female characters, legs spread and submission entrenched into their body language. His length stands and he bites hard on his lower lip, sinfully indulging in his imagination.

He isn’t a girl, but he has read of this online out of curiosity. Youngjae uncertainly coats a finger with Vaseline and glances to the door instinctively. There’s no harm in trying. He’ll probably realise it’s a stupid idea halfway through and laugh it off later.

The coldness grazes his skin and he holds his breath when his finger intrudes his hole. He pushes it in and the foreign sensation has him wheezing thinly till he prods hard. His toes curl and he presses once more, gulping thickly.

Another finger sinks deep into him and slowly, Youngjae comes undone onto the sheets, shakily lifting his hips to take in more. He smothers a soft whimper and loses his sanity with the newfound trickles of ecstasy. So much, that he forgets who the person in his clouded visions is.

Daehyun demands the space between his legs in his reverie, filling Youngjae up till he runs out of breath. His hand scrape at the sheets and the world burns a scarlet red beneath his skin. Youngjae orgasms with the terrible slip of Daehyun’s name on his lips.

The aggravations of his panting dwindle out into an uncomfortable silence, like a staring crowd. Youngjae gazes up at the peeling ceiling and brushes a hand through his hair weakly, fingers dripping with his shameful endeavour.

It’s an accident, probably, that he thought of tanned arms bruising his hips and the sting of mint. Youngjae flutters his eyes shut and heads to the bathroom, washing away the fluids on his wrinkled fingertips.

When he wanders back to the living room, he spots his phone vibrating across the couch. It’s Daehyun.

“Hey, why didn’t you pick up your phone? I’ve called like a thousand times,” Daehyun remarks lightly, too loud for Youngjae’s present sensitivity.

Youngjae lowers the volume. “Oh, you did? Sorry,” he breathes.

“Did you just wake up?” Daehyun questions through loud munches. Youngjae’s fingers curl and he hides them beneath the cushion.

“Mm.”

“Twelve o’clock. Wow, that’s earlier than usual. You really outdid yourself today, kid,” Daehyun guffaws at his own jab, his rich laughter an accompaniment in Youngjae’s slumbers.

Daehyun sounds happier lately. His smiles used to be silicone and his ministrations were torpid, like the lethargy gorged on his bones for breakfast. Monotone still wraps around him but his eyes start to gleam more often. Maybe he has found someone.

The backdrop of cafeteria chatter drifts over the phone. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Youngjae exhales. “Um, what did you call for?”

“Oh, uh, just wanted to tell you I’m coming over tonight after work. I’ll buy dinner. Your favourite,” the phone rustles, “pork belly strips.”

“Really?” Youngjae musters up some enthusiasm, the soreness between his legs reminding him of what he had just done moments ago. He feels suffocated—understandably so, since they are both men and it is rather abnormal that Youngjae wants to feel Daehyun deep in him.

An unfamiliar, high-pitched voice breaches their conversation. “Hey, Daehyun! Do you want to go drinking tonight? Himchan, Hana and I are going to the beef restaurant across the street. Himchan’s treat.”

“Ah, it’s alright. Thanks,” Daehyun’s distant voice resounds before he speaks into the receiver once more.

“Sorry about that. Let’s go mattress shopping tonight. Your spare one stinks.”

 

\--

 

A crush is like a splash, Youngjae realises. It starts out feverish and wild like a stone’s throw into the river, passion explosive and all over the place. In its wake, it leaves behind a cavity, disrupting all stillness in the water. Eventually, the lost droplets return and the ripples are left as a distant memory. With more time, the nostalgia fades into nothingness, no scars to remember.

So, Youngjae places his assurance in his forgetfulness. He daringly basks in Daehyun’s breathtaking simpers and his strong grasp around his hips. He laughs when Daehyun whispers into his ear at the cinema and asks to visit crowded places, so Daehyun holds his hand to keep them together.

On days Daehyun doesn’t hop over, Youngjae digs deep into himself and whimpers at the thought of Daehyun kissing him into the mattress. Sometimes, even on nights where Daehyun calls to tell him he’s stopping by. At the end of it all, Youngjae wipes his wet fingers and unsteadily walks to the door to welcome Daehyun, his little secret stitched into his heart.

Daehyun remains oblivious. He continues brushing Youngjae’s hair out of his eyes and spares a bewildered glance when Youngjae moves away his hand on his thigh. Daehyun’s affection blossoms into unfair touches, where he climbs into Youngjae’s bed while reasoning that the new mattress is too stiff. Unaware, he feels Youngjae in places that stir a strangling heat through his bloodstream. It’s cruel, but Youngjae still likes it.

The brevity of every person’s story gives Youngjae a better excuse to enjoy their friendship, despite the futility. Still, Youngjae can dream, so he delves into penning down romance while his life writes out a one-sided love.

Everything dies away eventually, from feelings to people—or so Youngjae promises himself. Daehyun will become but an inspiration for a heartfelt book that never came true. Therefore, Youngjae leaves the weight in his heart unattended and curls up in Daehyun’s arms for another night.

 

\--

 

Love is like a splash, except there’s no stone thrown into the river. Instead, there's an endless downpour over the ocean. Youngjae realises this when it rains in his room and Daehyun is the sole cause of it. Youngjae’s heart hurts just a little, and he evens out his breathing so Daehyun doesn’t hear him.

 

\--

 

“You seriously thought the movie was good?” Daehyun scoffs, sitting cross-legged on the floor in his work attire while typing up an email on his phone.

Youngjae squints at him from the dining table. He feels nauseous after their impromptu movie date, Daehyun having fallen asleep on his shoulder. The movie was terrible but he sat through it so he wouldn’t have to wake Daehyun up.

“Maybe you’re just too old to appreciate animation,” he points out. Daehyun glimpses over his phone and smirks.

“Yeah, I’m not a kid, after all.”

Youngjae throws him a sullen look, to which Daehyun grins wider. “Stop acting cute,” Daehyun drawls. He hides his laugh behind his fist as he leans against the side of the couch.

“I’m not acting cute!” Youngjae grunts, veering his attention back to his laptop screen. He huffs and deletes a line, wracking his brains for a dainty depiction.

His new book is rather directionless with no proper ending he can foresee. It follows a bit too close to his life like a diary but in fancier, pretentious euphemisms. Sometimes, he works on it when Daehyun is around to freshly fossilise the moment.

“Stop being cute, then.”

The philosophy is dangerous, but it isn’t as if Daehyun will recognise the familiar characters beneath these generic names. Although, Youngjae does not prettify the dialogue and preserves Daehyun’s brash words and dirty jokes. He documents the listlessness that never leaves Daehyun alone, together with the way his eyes charmingly crinkle at the sides like a crumpled page.

The novels are right. Love is clichéd and makes Youngjae see every of Daehyun’s faults as unrivalled quirks, intriguing and mesmerising. From the times he gets awkward when the cashier strikes up a conversation, to the instance he tripped over his feet at the supermarket, glamorously toppling their basket. How he annoyingly snores, how he habitually breathes through his mouth instead of his nose, and how he is constantly oblivious.

“I called up my cousin yesterday,” Daehyun mentions while Youngjae types. “He has a friend who put out a cook book a few years ago. Says you can publish your books yourself, if you want to.”

“That’s hard,” Youngjae comments. “It costs a lot of money to mass-produce the copies without a publishing company helping you out.”

“You can start with a few. Maybe five. Come on, aren’t you interested in seeing how your books will look like when they’re published?” Daehyun persuades,casting him a tulip smile.

“But nobody wants to read it,” Youngjae protests, halting in his writing to fully focus on Daehyun. “Why print it out if no one wants to read it?”

“I do,” Daehyun immediately returns. “I’ll recommend it to my family and my colleagues, too. I know some of them like to read.”

“I’d rather not force them to buy my trash. Besides, I’ll probably have to charge a lot just for one copy,” Youngjae heaves, finger resuming their rattles across the keyboard.

Daehyun reaches behind him and grasps blindly for a cushion. He flings it straight at Youngjae and the younger man yelps.

“It’s not trash, you idiot. Stop saying that.”

“My point still stands,” Youngjae mutters, picking up the plopped pillow.

“Let’s just try it out, Youngjae,” Daehyun persists. “We’ll work on it together. I’ve been watching tutorials on how to make your own book and it seems doable.”

“You must be an expert now.” Youngjae tosses the cushion back and drawls, “Thanks for the thought, but seriously, it’s expensive.” In a blank page, he writes of goodwill and always trying to salvage his dismantled pipe dream.

“Yeah, but I’ve already bought the materials, so.”

Youngjae turns to face him, eyes wide. “Are you serious? What did you buy? And how much did they cost?” He splutters, only serving to draw up Daehyun’s thick lips till his eyes disappear behind the folds of youthful jubilance. “Why’d you even buy it before asking me?”

“Slow down, kid. One question at a time,” Daehyun enunciates, snicker meshing with his gruff words.

“Return them. I’ll pay you back.” Youngjae frowns sternly at the older man, though his pulse turns on him. In the crater of his chest, it rains in the form of heartbeats.

“Do you want both to happen or…” Daehyun trails off, amusement ringing through his tone when Youngjae makes an unintelligible noise.

“Come on, Youngjae. I want to see you publish a book too,” Daehyun convinces. “It’ll be fun. I’ve already bought the materials, anyway. You don’t want to see it go to waste, right?”

“But-”

“The store has a no-refund policy. Please? Let’s try it out.”

The way Daehyun’s eyes shine with hope crushes back any sort of protest within Youngjae. He nods mutely, lowering his gaze to his laptop before breathing, “Fine. Just one copy.”

“Two. One for me and one for you,” Daehyun corrects, melting into a beautiful smile as he resumes drafting his email. “I’m glad you’re on board, kid. I really want a hardcopy of your books.”

He has so much faith in Youngjae it’s almost hilarious. In all honesty, Youngjae knows he writes garbage. He drafts cringeworthy monologues that border on unforgivable soliloquies. His imageries are constantly rehashed and he botches correct sentence structure just to seem edgy.

He shouldn’t expect much discernment from someone who last read an actual book decades ago. Nonetheless, Youngjae wants to kiss him badly. Perhaps it’s the heat of the moment that makes him wonder how lucky he is to have met Daehyun on a street in January, where resolutions and new year wishes fall flatter than runways. How fortunate he is to meet somebody who laughs at his shortcomings yet reminds him to put on lip balm.

The months with Daehyun are a summer solstice in a blizzard that never ends. Youngjae feels his heart rise so far up it spills out of his throat. Terribly, through his words.

“I like you.”

The words prick frost into Youngjae’s tongue. He does not look at Daehyun.

Daehyun guffaws, teasing eyes raising from his phone before he returns to writing his email. “Wow. Am I going to win the lottery soon?”

Youngjae’s heart churns out a beat too fast before his mind can beg him to stop.

“More than a friend.”

An eerie lapse of silence engulfs the room instantly. It is almost as though nine o’clock traffic simply stopped and everyone else snapped their necks in alarm. Youngjae’s fingers continue typing gibberish on his laptop and he stares so hard at the screen that his eyes nearly cross.

In Youngjae’s periphery, he sees Daehyun lift his head. He wears a stinging deer-in-headlights look, phone lowered into his lap.

It takes Daehyun a while to speak. “What?”

“I like you,” Youngjae repeats, his voice shockingly sturdy despite his insides being brittle. “In a more-than-friends way.”

Daehyun stares at him. After a painfully long moment, he lowers his wide-eyed gaze with several blinks.

“Oh.”

Youngjae’s fingers clatter pathetically over the keys and his words make no sense. He dares not let his eyes leave the screen and his vocal chords hysterically attempt to claw back his mistake. It’s too late, however. All the air within him that naively pushed out his confession has decomposed into crushing lead. The drawn-out wordlessness wrenches his heart down into his guts.

Youngjae’s gaze wavers.

“Uh,” Daehyun stops sharply, sounding awfully winded for one syllable. He flutters his lashes.

“I… think I kind of like you too.”

Backspace, backspace, backspace. Youngjae’s stare freezes on his laptop, paragraphs of worthless nonsense dotting his sight.

“In a more-than-friends way?” His fingers tremble just the slightest.

Daehyun’s reply comes belatedly. “Yeah.”

“Oh, okay,” Youngjae says in a timid voice. His throat brims with queasiness and heat nicks at his eyes. He finally turns to look at Daehyun.

“Can I kiss you, then?” He asks. “I really want to do it.”

Daehyun blinks at him. “Oh, alright.”

Youngjae rises from his seat. Daehyun stares at him with large eyes, lump prominent in his throat while the other man nears him. Youngjae does not meet Daehyun’s gaze as he kneels down in front of him to level their faces.

Youngjae swallows. His fingers shake with a laughable intensity as the vehement emotions clog his windpipe. He raises his gaze just barely to look Daehyun in the eyes, dropping it promptly.

He leans forward and presses their lips together. It lasts a mere few seconds, indulgence chaste in the poetry of tingling wetness and an intimacy to somehow last a lifetime. He pulls away and Daehyun abruptly grabs his jaw, latching them together once more.

Daehyun kisses hard, like seeking to claim and keep for himself only. His teeth pull on Youngjae’s lower lip and he presses them closer till there’s no space left to breathe. Youngjae stumbles back and Daehyun pushes him onto the floor. He immediately clambers over Youngjae, fiercely locking their lips together as his nose presses into Youngjae’s cheek. Youngjae grips a clump of Daehyun’s hair in a bid attempt to gain his bearings.

Push, pull, push, pull, till all the strings come undone into a feverish turmoil of bruised lips. Youngjae shudders when Daehyun pries away from their frenzied kiss, suckling along the younger man’s jaw.

“Doesn’t seem like… just… ‘kind of’…” Youngjae gasps, clasping tight on Daehyun’s shoulders. The adrenaline rushes through him and provides a camouflage for his teeming happiness.

“Fine,” Daehyun breathes while he rains kisses down Youngjae’s neck. “I like you too. In a I-really-want-to-fuck-you way.”

“Oh,” Youngjae feebly wheezes, brash revelation plunging him into a precarious heat. He smothers back a whine as Daehyun marks him on his shoulder, his fingertips running along Daehyun’s neck.

Daehyun pauses in his ministrations, a string of saliva fraying when he shifts back to look Youngjae in the eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he lowers his voice. “I do like you. I just didn’t expect you to confess out of nowhere.” He licks his lips, trying to find the right words. “Honestly, I’ve… been feeling differently towards you for a while now. Didn’t have the time to sort it out.”

“It’s okay. I just told you for the sake of it,” Youngjae softly replies. “I wouldn’t mind even if you didn’t feel the same way. Our friendship comes first.”

Daehyun gently removes Youngjae’s trembling hands from his shoulders, splaying the younger man’s fingers open. He tightly interlocks their hands.

“Don’t pretend it doesn’t matter what my answer is. You have the right to be upset,” Daehyun breathes.

Youngjae peers up at the man above him through shallow exhales. Daehyun’s face is flushed, his eyes engulfed by a lustful haze and his lips glaringly crimson. He looks excruciatingly dashing, collar uneven and cologne marred with sweat.

“It’s more for me. I don’t like sad endings,” Youngjae whispers, averting his eyes.

Daehyun chuckles. “The writer in you is talking,” he says, gaze darting between Youngjae’s eyes with a misplaced allurement. “You write tragedies all the time.”

“Well, it’s okay if I’m the one who writes it,” Youngjae returns, embarrassment crawling over his cheeks.

“Who would plan for a tragedy?” Daehyun quashes a short chortle, laughter swiftly deliquescing into a poorly concealed hunger. The romantic ambience is scant in a two-by-four apartment with rusted pipes and honks from the congested traffic, but Youngjae still loses himself in Daehyun’s sultry eyes.

He wraps his arms around Daehyun’s neck and links their lips once more. In a disarray of hectic touches, Youngjae fragments over the mattress with Daehyun zealously kissing him into the headboard. Their garments pool on the floor and every caress has Youngjae’s knuckles turning white. Daehyun rips away every piteous inhale from him yet breathes an equinox into his capillaries. It’s mesmerising.

Daehyun maps down the contours of Youngjae’s chest and grinds their crotches together. Youngjae tugs at Daehyun’s hair and fervently bucks his hips, melting into the lovely moan Daehyun emanates. The atmosphere layers with ravenous yearning both of them have crushed beneath accidental brushes. Daehyun’s eyes are a constellation that outlines his name and the years he has on his beautiful skin.

Breathe in, breathe out. Daehyun burns lilac into his bones and makes him blue all over with his teeth and the asphyxiation he lends. Company is sweet under these stained sheets where Youngjae dreams more than he sleeps.

The uncertainty manifests when Daehyun’s hands wander south, unsure of where to touch. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admits faintly, tenderly flagging the sensitive areas down Youngjae’s thigh.

Youngjae seals their lips. He guides Daehyun with the inexperience of wanton nights alone, fumbling with the lube. Youngjae spreads his legs nervously in the dimness and clasps a hand over his mouth when Daehyun pushes in.

“Does it hurt?” Daehyun worriedly questions, crouching to lock eyes better with the younger man. Youngjae adamantly shakes his head and coaxes Daehyun to continue.

He throws his head back once Daehyun thrusts in all the way. Youngjae’s hands claw over the blanket and he simmers into the sensation of feeling Daehyun deep within him, delectably warm and painfully thick.

“Move,” Youngjae whispers, clutching on to Daehyun’s back. His nails embed into the older man’s flesh when Daehyun heeds him and experimentally thrusts, concerned stare raking over Youngjae’s expression.

The static accompanies the hum of nightlights and a vulnerable tendency to do as told in the dark. Youngjae’s fingers spell a sweet clinginess of pain and pleasure as he whimpers, every one of his moans inciting a feverishness in Daehyun’s irises.

Shivers, makeshift candlelight, apricot blushes seeping into dust. Daehyun’s voice strains and his hands fall into a dilemma of bruising and delicateness. He lifts Youngjae’s hips higher and thrusts into the man’s sweet spot, watching obsessively as Youngjae writhes.

As Daehyun pounds in, the ecstasy gradually engulfs Youngjae’s pain. Daehyun has their foreheads pressed together, insistently pushing up Youngjae’s legs till every blemish is bared. He groans into Youngjae’s lungs and composes a lovely octave of inhales and exhales.

Clenching back on Daehyun, Youngjae orgasms embarrassingly fast, the rapture reducing him to a convulsing mess. Daehyun deliriously swallows up his moan with a deep kiss and similarly releases into Youngjae’s tightness. His hips stutter and his head falls, long lashes flitting over Youngjae’s shoulder.

“I like you,” Daehyun breathes, still buried deep within Youngjae. He nestles his nose into the other man’s neck and shuts his eyes. “I like you a fucking lot.”


	5. Chapter 5

 

**[open-ended](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuC2sc-1CMU&list=PLflKpEjRZwlfbseXgO4AlUJqjzOnGqPKe) **

_Daehyun/Youngjae_

 

 

 

Dating Daehyun is odd. Over the years Youngjae had been attached, he was accustomed to gentle curves and feminine aromas. He passed his free time in college lounging at his girlfriend’s rented apartment, playing with nail polish and silky tresses. His guilty pleasure was peeking at miniskirts on windy days.

Daehyun is a contrary compound of harsh contours and matted sweat, two-thirds maroon and one-fifth tired eyes. Nothing much is different between them yet everything changes. Fridays are still for watching soccer matches and hugging the life out of one another when their favourite team scores. Saturdays are reserved for munching on roasted beef skewers while roaming through the city. Sundays conclude with Daehyun falling asleep on Youngjae’s lap.

Now, Youngjae’s intoxication becomes the way Daehyun takes him against the kitchen counter.

“How about Hokkaido? It’s warmer now.” Daehyun scrolls through several photos, humming every time he finds a tourist spot to his fancy.

“Mm, sounds nice,” Youngjae replies. A drastic change in scenery every once in a while helps to spark inspiration.

He makes a face at Daehyun’s coffee breath, americano staining the man’s teeth. “But… are you sure about this? It seems kind of expensive.”

“I earn a lot more than I look,” Daehyun answers with a minuscule smirk.

Saturday morning brims with a queer familiarity, of first-time excitement when Daehyun asked to come over in the morning instead of in the evening. Summer gowns flit past in an andante song while a languid chatter brews within the café, speaking of yesterday and tomorrow.

“Says the one who spends most of his time at my place,” Youngjae deadpans. “My water bill’s doubled because of you.”

“It has? Sorry,” Daehyun lets out a raucous chortle. “Guess that’s why I’ve been saving more. Let me handle your bills next time.”

He peeks over Youngjae’s laptop and pulls the screen back slightly. “How is it?”

“Mm. I managed to clean up the climax. It still sounds kind of awkward, though,” Youngjae exhales, ruffling through his hair.

Daehyun shifts over from the opposite seat. His fingers fall over the back of Youngjae’s hand underneath the table, away from ghosting eyes. “Let me see.”

“You’re just going to say it’s fine,” Youngjae remarks in amusement, nudging Daehyun aside. “Thanks for the coffee treat. It does help the writer’s block.”

He slips his hand away to properly twine their fingers. “You know, I actually pictured my life would be like this after college. But, it turns out I can’t afford seven dollar frappes on a daily basis. Even monthly is a stretch.”

“It is expensive. I wonder what they put in their coffee,” Daehyun drawls, discreetly drawing circles into Youngjae’s palm. “If you like, we can have our dates here.”

The words trickle into the back of Youngjae’s chest, fluttering soft. “You’re okay with doing nothing while I write?” Youngjae teases. “Anyway, you’re paying for the atmosphere, not the quality of the drinks. You can probably make better at home.”

“True. I don’t mind watching you write. I can do my work with you, too.” Daehyun goes back to skimming through some attractions once more, tracing out the wrinkles over Youngjae’s small hand.

“I went to Bangkok last year. It’s a beautiful place,” he mentions.

“Wow, I’ve always wanted to go there,” Youngjae replies in awe. He glimpses over at the waitress cleaning tables nearby. “Who did you go with?”

“Myself,” Daehyun returns. “Their night markets are amazing.”

Youngjae casts him a sympathetic look. “Ah, the lonely man goes adventuring.”

“Shut up. At least I got to go out of the country.” Daehyun untangles their hands when the same waitress winds over, too close that even the booth would have trouble obscuring interlinked hands. He diffuses into a translucent smile. “I’m excited. It was kind of boring, travelling on my own.”

“I’ll save up to go with you,” Youngjae voices, his lips quirking softly. “It’ll take a while, though, since you don’t plan on going anywhere cheap.” The crunches of numbers are bare and haphazard in his head, but he can borrow a sum from Junhong and skimp while he’s there. If it means that much to Daehyun, he doesn’t mind.

“What are you talking about?” Daehyun hums absentmindedly, encasing Youngjae’s hand in his as he casually looking out the window. “I’ll pay for you.”

Daehyun’s affectionate gestures are odd. He rarely uses his words, emphasising an intriguing dichotomy between his body and his mind. In the car, he points at random stores and rests his hand on Youngjae’s thigh after Youngjae looks over. On the street, he lies about how sloppily Youngjae eats so he can thumb his lips. At home, he inches forward to kiss but leaves Youngjae to close the gap.

“What? No.” Youngjae frowns. “That costs a lot.”

Daehyun’s thumb runs over his palm lines. It tickles. Youngjae pens down in his mind how it’s like asking to be part of a destiny.

“It’s not that much. I can afford it. Honest.”

“It is a lot. Even if you can, I should be paying that out of my own pocket,” Youngjae says.

Daehyun nonchalantly slurps at his coffee. “It’s fine, kid. I’ll pay for you. You can pay me back later if you really want to.”

Youngjae nods. “Okay. I don’t want to leech off you.”

Daehyun scoffs, amusement crumpling his eye circles. He parts his lips but only speaks after a moment.

“We’re dating,” he hums lowly. “Don’t worry about stuff like this.”

Daehyun resumes browsing through photographs, silencing Youngjae’s protests. Youngjae sighs and decidedly returns to his work as well, sieving through his emails. One of the small publishing agencies sends back a pleased reply to the short novel he ghostwrote, thanking him for his services.

Aside from his weekly erotica assignments, Youngjae picks up some gigs here and there to gather whatever stipend he can. Most of his miscellaneous freelance work falls under the romance genre. The market for love stories is surprisingly big and profitable. After all, it exploits impressionable youths and single thirties who dream of finding thrill in a chronic schedule—plus, the bullets of wedding invitations. Slap on a new concept on the same old recipe and all of them are reeled in once more.

This extra assignment pays more than usual so Youngjae has been working harder on it as compared to the rest. He steals a glance at Daehyun, the man aimlessly flicking through more pictures. Most of this week has been spent like this and Youngjae feels rather bad for it.

He attaches the final draft to the email and sends it over, clapping the laptop close. “I’m done,” he chirps, the other peering up. “Let’s go do something fun.”

“Alright.” Daehyun grins. “What do you want to do?”

“You said you wanted to go bowling last week, right?” Youngjae quickly slurps up his drink and packs up his laptop. Daehyun takes it from him as they get up from their seats.

“Yeah. Let’s go to the alley downtown.”

The drive there is five minutes long. Daehyun is shockingly good at bowling, getting off to a rocky start before snatching a row of consecutive strikes for himself. Youngjae finds him a tad bit hot for that, cheering embarrassingly loud as Daehyun knocks down all the pins once more.

“This is just a warm-up, kid,” Daehyun guffaws, a tinge of bashfulness mingling well with his newfound cocky attitude. He contentedly sprawls himself out over the chair as Youngjae shimmies up to the approach. He poorly imitates Daehyun’s stance, swinging out the ball only for it to roll into the gutter.

“You suck,” Daehyun erupts into laughter, pacing over to finish his turn.

“Screw you. It’s because my hands are small. They’re not good with balls that are big,” Youngjae laments. He follows Daehyun’s orders, adjusting his posture accordingly. “Basketball, rugby, volleyball—I sucked at all those sports in high school.”

“I don’t even need to be there to affirm that,” Daehyun stifles back his loud snicker, Youngjae belatedly understanding his sexual innuendo. He shoves Daehyun.

“You know what sport I was good at, though? Soccer.” He raises his foot threateningly and Daehyun scampers away in a fit. After a few more rounds, they get a smoothie to share, roaming to the car park under cinnamon lights.

“Liar.”

“Why don’t you believe me? It’s really my first time bowling,” Daehyun whines, slurping at the strawberry milkshake when Youngjae prods it over. He has one arm slung over Youngjae’s hips as usual, but his hand keeps wandering lower.

“Sure. You’re twenty-nine and you’ve never gone bowling before, yet you’re magically so good at it.” Youngjae rolls his eyes and tries squirming out of Daehyun’s hold. “If you’re not going to tell me, I’m going home myself.”

“Alright, alright,” Daehyun laughs. “I used to bowl with a few of my co-workers every other Saturday. It’s been a few years since I picked up a bowling ball, though.”

“Wow, you hang out with your colleagues on the weekends? My father used to duck his head whenever he saw them outside of the office,” Youngjae shares, shelving Daehyun’s words for later contemplation. A few years is a long time.

“When I moved to Seoul, I lost contact with my high school friends. I hung out mostly with Busan people in college so they all ended up going back to our hometown when they graduated. Didn’t have much of a choice,” Daehyun says lightly.

“Loser.” Youngjae lowers his voice and airily mentions, “You said you weren’t close to your colleagues.”

“Oh, we grew apart. The usual,” Daehyun answers simply. Youngjae peeks at him, deciphering his lack of elaboration quickly.

“How did you fill up your free time after that, then?”

“You mean before I met you?” Daehyun opens the car door for Youngjae and slips in afterwards, starting the engine. “I did overtime. Had nothing better to do.”

“Wow. First time I’m hearing someone be so bored he decides to work even more,” Youngjae jokes.

“What can I say? I’m a hardworking man.”

The pitter-patter blurs the scenery into a mess of lights and reflected footsteps. Lather, rinse, repeat. Every day, the crowds remain the same and so does the urban city ambience, yet Youngjae feels enthralled all over again.

The night talk show host blathers through the downpour, regaling the latest boy band for its hit album. It cuts to a corny commercial jingle.

“Help me change the station, kid.”

“To which?” Youngjae fiddles with the console, static speedily joining the rain sound. He swaps to another station, and another, while the voice snippets breezing from the speakers.

After a while, Daehyun gently takes Youngjae’s hand from the radio, placing it down and interlacing their fingers.

“This one’s fine,” he breathes.

It’s a slow bossa nova song, a little scratchy like aired from a gramophone. Youngjae melts into the foreign words and tightens their grip.

He kisses Daehyun on the cheek at the next intersection, startling the other man. “You looked hot when you were bowling just now,” Youngjae innocently remarks.

Daehyun stares at him, pure amusement scrawling over his expression. He scoffs and looks away with an incandescent grin, trying hard to come up with a reply.

“You’re unbelievable,” he settles on saying, bits of laughter escaping him. “Should I show up in a bowling uniform on all our dates, then?”

“Yeah,” Youngjae chimes. “You’re not normally attractive, so it’ll help a lot.”

“Shut up.”

 

\--

 

Daehyun is endearing. He bears an uncanny semblance to a birthday card from a boorish loved one that can’t get the words right. Awkward touches and bashfulness every now and then, a little sprinkle of coughs here and there. His fingers are consistently hesitant, seeking to hold but afraid of grasping onto nothing. He entwines their hands in the darkness of the movie theatre and distracts Youngjae by commenting unnecessarily on the trailers. Sometimes, Youngjae pretends to sleep first so he can feel Daehyun kissing his lashes.

Daehyun is a criss-cross of poetic verses and crude excerpts. Youngjae learns what it means to fall whenever he trembles underneath Daehyun. He melts into how Daehyun pins his wrists to the mattress and takes control, convulses at the hoarse whispers Daehyun leaves behind in his skin.

It’s lovely.

 

\--

 

On a Wednesday night, Daehyun brings Youngjae over to his place. It’s huge, more than three times the size of Youngjae’s apartment. It is also well-furnished to the point Youngjae would have mistaken it for a relatively new house if Daehyun hadn’t mentioned it was going on four years old.

It seems rather big for just one person to live in. The interior walls of Daehyun’s bedroom are wrapped in a mature umber while the floor tiles are polished wood. Above the headboard lies many electric candles on a long, narrow shelf.

The auburn lights cascade over them serenely, composing an intimate mood. In the corner stands a vanity dresser, out of place in a bachelor’s pad. Youngjae drags a thumb over the surface and inspects the trail of grime on his fingertip.

“Do you use this?” Youngjae questions. He watches quietly as Daehyun changes out of his work clothes, tossing on a grey T-shirt and some shorts.

“Oh, no. I wanted to sell it but never got around to doing so.”

Youngjae nods. He plops himself on the edge of Daehyun’s king-sized bed as his eyes rake over Daehyun’s room.

“You said you like my house more, right?” Youngjae wheezes, running his hands over the soft cotton. “Go live there. I’ll live here. I can’t believe you’d give up this paradise of a bed for my spongy mattress.”

Daehyun knuckles his head and nudges the man onto the pillows. “I like your house because you’re there, dumbass,” he drawls as he climbs onto the mattress. He wrenches Youngjae over by the hips, ignoring the younger man’s teasing grin.

“Aww. Did you like me since then?” Youngjae asks, doe eyes insistently trying to meet Daehyun’s dusky ones. It was a long time ago where Daehyun said that Youngjae’s apartment felt like home.

“I don’t know. I’m not the most self-aware person,” Daehyun answers. Curiosity douses his irises. “When did you start liking me?”

“I don’t know.” Youngjae flops into Daehyun’s arm, grabbing a pillow to hug. “Probably a long time ago. It took a while to realise since I thought I just liked you a lot as a friend.”

“Same. It was hard to tell,” Daehyun muses.

“Because I’m a guy, right?”

“Yeah,” Daehyun admits, brushing Youngjae’s hair back. “I assumed I only saw you as a brother.” He licks his lips before questioning, “Have you dated other guys before?”

“No. You’re my first.” Youngjae yawns wide and curls up, resting comfortably against Daehyun. “What about you?”

“I’ve never dated a guy before, too.” He pulls the comforter over them when Youngjae nuzzles his nose into his chest.

“Is it weird?”

“A bit,” Daehyun faintly confesses. “But it’s not _bad_ weird. It’s just a bit different from my other relationships.”

“Mm, I get it.” The younger man shuts his eyes and inhales Daehyun’s scent, indulging in his gripping heat. He has a firewood fragrance to him, punctured with bittersweet sentiments. “It kind of scared me when I first found out.”

“Sorry.” Daehyun nudges him closer, Youngjae’s head lolling sideways as slumber tickles his lashes. “Is my bed that nice? You were so hyper a few minutes ago.”

Youngjae nods. “It’s so comfy. I could sleep forever.”

Daehyun laughs fondly and his hand discreetly roams down to Youngjae’s hipbone. He hums a low tune in the tepid quietness before starting, “Do you want to move in, kid? You can sleep here all you want.”

“Do you really want us to see each other even more than we already do?” Youngjae jests, missing the subtle seriousness in Daehyun’s tone.

An offbeat pause materialises between their lines. Daehyun eventually chuckles, “Are you saying you’ll get tired of me?”

“If you bowl in front of me every now and then, maybe not,” Youngjae teases. He glimpses up at the lack of response, Daehyun gazing absentmindedly at their reflection in the TV.

“I’m kidding, Daehyun. I’d love to but I’ve already paid the rent for these few months. Besides, I don’t want to be a burden.”

“I know you’re joking,” Daehyun sobers out of his thoughts and meets Youngjae’s eyes. “You’re not burdening me. This place is big enough for the both of us.”

“I am a burden. I won’t be able to pay for all the bills.” Youngjae makes a pouty face on purpose, whining when Daehyun expectedly pulls his cheek.

“I’ll pay.”

“But what about my share?”

“What part of ‘I’ll pay’ do you not understand? I’m starting to think your head’s just a decorative rock.” Daehyun rubs Youngjae’s forehead lightly.

Youngjae is unfazed, making a V with his hands and showcasing his face like a flower. “So, you’re saying I’m beautiful?”

Daehyun groans, inciting a sweet laugh in the other. He smiles along and heaves, “Sadly, yes.”

They fall asleep after Youngjae skims through the prompt for his next assignment, due in a week’s time. Dawn skids in with the pigmentation of bruises, Youngjae waking to the sunrise and Daehyun gone from his grasp. A fresh silhouette of Daehyun’s lips quickly disappears from his cheek.

Youngjae wanders past the shut bathroom door to the kitchen and ransacks through Daehyun’s fridge. Making toast with butter and jam, Youngjae slouches over the dining table and nearly falls asleep waiting for Daehyun to emerge.

“You’re awake,” Daehyun hums in surprise once he exits. He grabs his briefcase and settles by the door, tying his shoes. “There’s cereal in the fridge and a loaf of bread by the oven. I left some money on the bedside table in case you need it for lunch.”

“Wait, Daehyun, I made you breakfast,” Youngjae mumbles. He sleepily patters over and passes the packed sandwich.

“Oh, I already ate, kid,” Daehyun says, inspecting the sandwich with a few blinks.

“Oh, okay,” Youngjae murmurs. “I’ll eat it later, then.” He reaches out to grab it back when Daehyun pulls away, smiling fondly.

“Thanks.” He tenderly threads his fingers through Youngjae’s hair, fingers drizzling down to Youngjae’s cheek. His stare drops to Youngjae’s lips and he gradually erases the space between them, kissing softly.

He leaves Youngjae more dazed than when he had awoken. “I’ll be home at six,” Daehyun breathes against his skin, the subtle unsureness falling back into his touch despite his irises blanching with mist. “Let’s go out for dinner.”

“Okay,” Youngjae whispers. “Have a good day at work.”

 

\--

 

Infatuation is an interrobang, thunderous and wild. Love is an ellipsis that wishes to go on forever.

 

\--

 

Youngjae plagiarises the moments spent between the sheets for his assignment. Somehow, it is more difficult to depict the manner in which Daehyun kisses down from his navel despite the reference. Daehyun’s rasp makes him bite his knuckles, makes him wish Daehyun would fill him up to the brim, but none of their misplaced touches make it onto paper. They have no space in a realm where awkward phrasings are deleted.

So, Youngjae writes their story like a journal. He puts down his laptop when Daehyun visits and recollects the day while Daehyun snores beside him. The single bed in Youngjae’s apartment is narrow and creaky, but Daehyun seems to not mind at all. Sometimes, he brings Youngjae over to his place and leaves his hand imprints on Youngjae’s thighs as souvenir.

“This looks like it’ll take a really long time, Daehyun.” Youngjae props himself up with his arms, lying flat on his tummy as he sceptically watches the book binding tutorial.

Daehyun sits cross-legged beside him, pupils gleaming with enthusiasm. He sweeps the impulsively-bought materials towards them.

“It’ll be faster with two of us,” he convinces, pausing the video on his laptop as he checks the items. Thread, glue, fancy floral-patterned papers, all strewn across the floor in a concoction of sloppy ventures. “I’ve already found a fabric shop with good reviews. Let’s mark a date to go there.”

“At this rate, we might as well get a printing company to do it,” Youngjae mutters, flopping onto his back.

“We could get a publishing company if you think that’s better.” Daehyun shifts and crouches over the younger man, gazing at him lopsidedly. It reminds Youngjae of the day where Daehyun went out for a smoke, hands clenching restlessly after his mother’s call.

“No, that’s expensive. They usually have a minimum quota for the number of copies.” Youngjae replies, chewing on his lower lip as he averts his stare. “Daehyun, I don’t want to waste your time. You’re a busy guy. Besides, it’s kind of useless to make a hardcover book of something nobody’s going to read.”

“I want to read it.”

“You don’t have to be nice,” Youngjae stresses. His embarrassment mistakenly emerges as a tinge of annoyance and he scoots away from Daehyun.

“I’m not trying to be nice,” Daehyun states, seriousness permeating his tone. His certainty falters and he quietly claps his laptop close, rubbing the nape of his neck. “Sorry. I shouldn’t push you.”

Youngjae tilts his head up to lock eyes with Daehyun and apologetically squirms nearer to the other man. “You’re really not doing this out of pity?”

“Of course not. Why would I pity you?” Daehyun exhales. He lies down beside the younger man, both of them aimlessly staring up at the ceiling. “I like reading your stories.”

The way the surrounding walls run down into the ground makes the world look so formidable even in a trivial space like this. Millions of others are in a same square doing god knows what, just tiny people on a globe too big. Youngjae doesn't like partaking in existential crises, especially when he already stirs useless philosophical conundrums in his proses.

Still, he’s going on twenty-nine and about to hit his youth's expiry date. Six years was more than enough for him to realise he's beating at a dead horse and he’s not all that, but desperation makes even the most pragmatic man grasp at straws. What more a starry-eyed child like him?

“Sorry,” Youngjae wheezes, rolling over and drawing shapes into the floor. His eyes sting a little at the thought of the pointless years now burnt into his parents' wrinkled knuckles.

“It feels like I'm forcing you to do all this. Reading my stuff, saying good things about it, this whole printing stuff—I don't want you to feel obliged to do these things for me just because you're my boyfriend.”

Daehyun turns to him, hair flittering to the side. After a long while, he rasps, “I love you more than enough not to do that.”

The words have Youngjae glimpsing from his reflection in the floor tiles to the mirror in Daehyun's dusty irises. Daehyun flutters his lashes and continues, “I want you to be happy; that’s true. But I want to see you publish a book as much as you do, because I think you’re good.”

Youngjae stares at him for a lengthy moment as none of them utter a word. Over the years of missing high school gatherings and college get-togethers despite how close he was to his classmates, it's nice he got another try at making a friend.

"Is the fabric expensive?" Youngjae lowly questions. Daehyun deliquesces into a lovely, lovely smile and gently pecks him on the forehead.

“It's not. Don't bother about that. Worry about what book you want to publish.”

“What book I want to publish...” Youngjae pulls in his lips, mulling hard. “Ugh, that's tough.”

“Do you have a favourite?” Daehyun tries. “How about your first?”

“That’s a terrible idea. The first piece I wrote was when I was ten.”

“Right. The one about alien monkeys,” Daehyun amusedly states. “Which one’s your best, then?”

“None are good,” Youngjae honestly admits. He pouts once Daehyun narrows his eyes. “I mean it! I'm not self-loathing. Once I’m done with them, they all start to feel so mediocre after some time.”

“Can you be nice to yourself, for once?” Daehyun pulls Youngjae's ear, chortling heartily when the younger man whines.

“I have you for that.” Youngjae throws him a toothy simper, his cheeky smile feathering into a sincere smile. “Thank you, Daehyun.”

Daehyun snorts. “Why are you thanking me? I wasn’t being nice. I meant what I said.”

“Thank you for being you, then,” Youngjae hums, pausing for a moment. “For not reading a book in twenty years and having horrible taste because of that.”

“Seriously? This is what I get after all that?” Daehyun rolls his eyes back and groans. “You suck.”

“You’re not wrong.” Youngjae hollows his cheeks and coils his hand into a fist, shaking hard. Daehyun slaps his head.

“For someone who doesn’t admit he has trouble walking in the morning, you sure are happy to tell everyone what we do in bed,” Daehyun drawls, husky laugh thankfully dampening Youngjae’s indignance.

“That’s because you act like you’re concerned but we both know it just rubs your ego, you bastard!”

“Maybe,” Daehyun confesses smugly. “Anyway, think about what book you want to publish. We can do a few, if you want, but let’s start with one for now.”

He squats and slips his arms below Youngjae, the man confusedly looking back. “Don’t lie down on the floor for so long. It’s cold.” Daehyun heaves Youngjae up bridal style, stumbling slightly before tossing the man onto the bed.

“Weakling,” Youngjae chortles, ducking when Daehyun tries to slap him again.

 

\--

 

When Daehyun loves, he shares everything. He treats his lover like they are one, spoils and pampers her like she’s the better part of himself. Youngjae becomes a living, breathing piece of Daehyun that runs around and makes him more vulnerable to the world.

It hurts to think someone took advantage of that kindness, especially when nobody is deserving of it.

Daehyun borrows a new book from Youngjae’s shelf, where birthday candles are bad luck and the aged are loathed and mistreated. _Candles_ , Youngjae printed it out four years ago, stapled it haphazardly and never looked through it after the first time.

Daehyun sends him a photograph at seven-thirty in the morning. His fingers stretch out over the bottom half of the page. On it writes, _you may skip the candles but the wrinkles will always tell._

Youngjae flushes, but he’s long used to these pictures. _Bet you just took a photo of a random page,_ Youngjae jokes, morning grogginess waning with the thought of Daehyun. He felt like the world was decomposing into his bones yesterday night while he rushed for a deadline and his body just refused to vomit out anymore. Six years, and he still feels horrible.

Daehyun sends another message, manually typing out the quote. _Is this enough proof?_

_That hand looks suspicious. It’s not you, is it? You must have tossed the book to a friend and gotten him to send you the picture._

_Seriously?_ Daehyun replies. Youngjae buries his face into his pillow, stifling his giggles.

_Take a picture of yourself with the book, then I’ll believe you_ , he teases.

It takes a while for Daehyun’s next message to come. Attached is a photo of himself, awkwardly holding up the book to his chin. Youngjae tears up from laughing too hard.

_Your friend’s handsome,_ Youngjae answers. _Is he single?_

_Nope. Taken by a pretty girl named Yoo Youngjae._

_Screw you,_ Youngjae types back, though his jovial grin still persists. Daehyun replies after a moment.

_You started it, kid._

 

\--

 

Junhong visits one late Monday afternoon. It always come as a surprise to Youngjae how tall his brother is, despite Junhong being three years younger and both their parents being of average height. He works as an aerospace engineer in their hometown and recently went on a short vacation to France with his wife.

He doesn’t mind who Youngjae dates, though he does insist on being wary in a climate where married men oft experiment through affairs. The innocent are always abandoned in the sheets in the morning like a forgotten dream.

“Yeseul’s pregnant, hyung,” Junhong announces cheerily as he helps Youngjae unpack the souvenirs he bought. An entire slew of biscuits tumbles out of the large bag, Youngjae whipping his head towards his brother.

“Seriously? Oh my god, that’s awesome!” Youngjae blurts, affectionately pulling Junhong into a hug. “How long has she been pregnant?”

“Two weeks. We found out a few days ago, hyung. I would have told you earlier but I wanted to break the news face-to-face,” Junhong declares. His exuberance overflows from his barely-contained grin, gums proudly showing. “Paris works wonders.”

“Man, I’m really happy for you, Junhong,” Youngjae cajoles, Junhong choking when Youngjae pats his back too hard. “To think you used to say you’d never want to start a family.”

Junhong chortles. “Honestly, I can’t believe it myself. I changed a lot, huh?”

Evening wanes in with the blush of fuchsia along the horizon. In a blur of reminiscences, Youngjae realises how drastically people can change and yet remain the same. Junhong is no more the lanky, awkward college student who muttered more so than he spoke, yet he still slurs his words shyly and blinks too much for his own good. He has always had a good heart despite his stubborn one-man-show attitude.

Junhong slips on his shoes when darkness begins gnawing away at the house. Youngjae stands over him, playfully poking his butt with his foot.

“You better take care of Yeseul well,” Youngjae reminds.

“Please, hyung. I’ve been taking care of her so well these few days she’s getting annoyed at me,” Junhong guffaws, reaching behind and twisting Youngjae’s big toe. “Says I’m being too much of a nanny. I was going to visit you later this week but she chased me out of the house today.”

“Where’s your boyfriend, hyung? You said he usually comes over at six-thirty, right?” Junhong questions, scouring around in intrigue.

“He’s probably stuck in traffic. Or maybe he’s not popping by today.” Youngjae thinks to himself, making a note to call Daehyun after this.

“That’s too bad. I wanted to meet him,” Junhong puffs. He straightens up and dusts his pants, lingering by the door.

“Then, how about going home with me tonight, hyung? You can visit our parents and save the train fare.”

“It’s okay. I still haven’t finished this week’s assignment,” Youngjae sighs. “Porn doesn’t write itself, you know.”

Junhong rolls his eyes in amusement. They stand by the doorway, Junhong brushing his soles against the concrete floor. “You’ll visit soon, right? Omma wants you to try her new dish.”

“Yeah, probably. I’m kind of busy, though.” Youngjae squeezes his elbow, the falseness in his apology revealing how frequent Junhong asks him this.

“You didn’t look too busy when I came here,” Junhong mentions in a quiet voice.

“Can’t a guy take a break for a few minutes?” Youngjae mutters. He sometimes dreads Junhong visiting because of this—he constantly brings along a prettily-packaged guilt trip for Youngjae, ensconcing his parents’ questions about how he’s doing.

“You should go. It’s getting late. Yeseul’s going to be worried.” Youngjae turns to enter the house but Junhong takes his hand, pulling him back.

“Omma and Appa really want to see you,” he urges.

Yonungjae sighs. “I'd like to see them too, but some people have to work, Junhong.”

“You can stay for just one day and use the guest room to work on your stuff.” His eyes soften and his following words come after a hesitant moment. “Hyung, you know you’re worried over nothing.”

“I can’t go home, Junhong,” Youngjae wheezes exasperatedly. The shadow of Junhong’s large stature falls over Youngjae’s face, splashing against the door.

“They’re still sending me allowance,” his voice withers. “How can I face them?”

“They don’t mind, hyung-”

“That’s easy for you to say when you’re not the one leeching off them. You’ve got your life all together while I’ll probably have to live off them for the rest of my life.” Youngjae snaps. “They could have retired a long time ago but they can’t because of _me_.”

He rubs his forehead and his shoulders consequently fall. “Let’s not talk about this. I’ll visit them soon, I promise.”

Junhong parts his lips but the words ultimately rot back into his windpipe. “Okay.” He squeezes Youngjae’s shoulders and tugs him into a hug, sighing softly. “Stop blaming yourself, hyung. Omma and Appa still work because they want to.”

“You’ll get tired of feeding me these excuses someday, Junhong,” Youngjae scoffs, cheek pressing against Junhong’s chest. He feels Junhong heave but the younger man does not bother arguing back, both basking in each other’s warmth.

Youngjae wonders when Junhong started taking care of him instead of the other way around. He used to be the one giving Junhong extra pocket money when he spent too much on his games. How things change.

They finally slip away after a long while, Youngjae grinning up at Junhong. He pats his cheek lightly. “Drive safely. Send my congratulations to Yeseul.”

Youngjae sprawls himself on the couch after Junhong vanishes down the corridor. He shuts his eyes and the mundane moment stretches out till he hears the doorbell ring.

“I almost thought you weren’t coming over today,” Youngjae chirps once he peeks out the house, a soothing sense of familiarity washing over him as Daehyun pulls up a smile. Youngjae plops back on the sofa while Daehyun undoes his tie, draping it on a nearby chair.

“There was an accident near the expressway entrance. Caused a bit of a jam,” Daehyun fills in as he settles down beside Youngjae. He immediately slouches into the seat, lashes batting slowly.

“You look beat. Want a back massage?” Youngjae offers, switching on the television.

Daehyun shakes his head, his lips quirking slightly as he gives Youngjae a quick glance. His irises are particularly hollow today, in spite of the foggy midnight that consistently chases after his pupils. Perhaps it’s a case of the Monday blues.

“I’ll make you some ginger tea.” Youngjae attempts to get up when Daehyun places a hand over his thigh, shaking his head once more.

“It’s alright. Thanks,” Daehyun says, resting his head back onto the cushion. “Where do you want to go for dinner?”

“Anywhere’s good. I’m craving bibimbap, though,” Youngjae shares.

“Bibimbap, okay,” Daehyun echoes, words peculiarly laborious. “How about Doongji?”

“Mm, sure.” Youngjae scoots closer and worriedly asks, “You okay? I can go buy something up instead.”

“No, I’m fine. Just tired.” Daehyun’s gaze rakes over the house and lands on the pile of titbits on the dining table. “Looks like you did some shopping.”

“They’re snacks from France. Want some?” Youngjae moves aside Daehyun’s hand and lugs a few cartons over, inspecting their packaging. “The chocolates are delicious.”

“Maybe later,” Daehyun returns. “Where’d you get them from?”

“Flew to Paris this morning and came back just a while ago,” Youngjae jokes, prying open a box and popping a sweet into his mouth. “Mm, these are seriously good. I’ll save the rest for you.”

Night stands by the window sill like a passer-by, sparing a cold breeze. For a long time, a breathless stillness wades through the room. no words spoken.

Daehyun's voice eventually grates against the air.

“I saw you standing outside with someone just now,” he hums.

Youngjae spins his head around and peers up at the older man. Daehyun does not meet his eyes, blankly gazing at the television.

“Who was that?”

“Are you referring to the tall guy I was talking to?” Youngjae blinks in surprise, sliding up onto the couch. “That was my brother, Junhong. I didn’t know you saw him.”

Daehyun glances at him. “Your brother?” He lowly repeats.

“Mm. He stopped by to give me some souvenirs after his trip to France. That’s why I’ve got all this stuff.” Youngjae tilts his head. “Why didn’t you come up and say hi? He wanted to meet you.”

“Ah, I felt awkward interrupting you two,” Daehyun replies simply. They simmer into another bout of silence, Youngjae keeping his questions to himself. Junhong left quite a while ago so if Daehyun had seen him, he should have come up much earlier.

Suddenly, Daehyun leans over and presses their lips together. His kiss is more fervent than normal, pulling fervidly to the point Youngjae has to nudge Daehyun back to breathe. Youngjae swipes a tongue along his swollen lips to pacify them, a tinge of confusion warping his stare.

Daehyun gazes at him, eyes flickering back and forth like a broken light. He nudges Youngjae down onto the cushions and sucks on Youngjae’s lower lip, tongue intruding the man’s mouth. He drags a hand over Youngjae’s chest and roughly marks down his neck.

“Daehyun,” Youngjae exhales in a faint voice, rather taken aback by Daehyun’s advances. Whenever Daehyun's aroused, he usually approaches with unsureness. More than once, Youngjae had been felt up while he was busy in the kitchen, Daehyun quiet as he slipped a hand up Youngjae’s shirt. Only when Youngjae reciprocates does he firmly grope, hunger slowly devouring him.

Daehyun breathes against Youngjae's neck, pausing in his ministrations. “Your brother doesn’t look much like you,” he softly mentions.

“Yeah. People often think I’m younger than him, too,” Youngjae answers. He grips Daehyun when the older man palms his groin, unravelling into Daehyun’s heat.

“Daehyun, is something bothering you?” Youngjae halts to stifle a moan. He squints his eyes shut as Daehyun strokes his length, his hand providing a sinful friction.

“Nothing’s bothering me,” Daehyun murmurs into Youngjae’s skin, feeling first-hand his boyfriend’s every twitch and shiver. He reclines and watches Youngjae throw his head back, thumb teasing the man’s sore tip.

“Did something happen at work?” Youngjae strains.

A poignant thought crosses his mind and his heart shrivels. He instantly reaches down and stops Daehyun’s hand, searching Daehyun’s eyes forlornly. “That was my brother, Daehyun. I can show you pictures of us.”

“I know,” Daehyun croaks. He momentarily rests his forehead on Youngjae’s chest. “Nothing happened at work. I just want you.”

In some threadbare minutes, Daehyun has their clothes forgotten on the floor, grasping desperately at flesh and skin. He rubs their erections together and drags his tongue across Youngjae’s collarbone. Slowly, his fingers rain down to between Youngjae’s legs, firmly slipping in.

They have done this dozens of times but it still reduces Youngjae into brittle breaths. Daehyun rams his digits in till he deems it sufficient, dripping fingers tracing over Youngjae’s lips. He eventually pushes himself in and placates Youngjae with a slow, long kiss.

Every thrust scorches pleasure through Youngjae’s veins. He rocks his hips back to take more of Daehyun in and falls in love again with how accustomed their bodies are to one another. Daehyun spreads Youngjae’s legs wider and shoves in deeper, insistently clawing out all of Youngjae’s whimpers till he is utterly hoarse.

He paints Youngjae inside out when he orgasms, thick cum bursting into the man’s tightness. Youngjae shakily clutches onto Daehyun when the older man persists in his thrusting, the overstimulation unwinding Youngjae into a pathetic mess.

Panting heavily, Daehyun collapses on top of him, ear pressed against Youngjae’s heart. “I love you,” he churns out faintly. His grip is still tight over Youngjae’s waist.

Youngjae gently threads a hand through Daehyun’s hair, eyes fluttering shut in fatigue. “I love you too.”


	6. Chapter 6

 

**[open-ended](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuC2sc-1CMU&list=PLflKpEjRZwlfbseXgO4AlUJqjzOnGqPKe) **

_Daehyun/Youngjae_

 

 

 

Seven years is a long time to give your all to someone and end up robbed of everything, devoid of love even for yourself. Youngjae learns well why Daehyun grips him tight in his sleep. Why he holds Youngjae’s hand and pretends it was an accident. Why he stayed watching from the lift lobby the day he saw Youngjae embrace a man he didn’t recognise.

There’s no medicine for bruises kept within the ribcage. Time is an anaesthetic that helps numb the pain but the deep wounds never do go away. The evidence lies in the fatigue that mangles Daehyun’s once youthful face, remembered only in yellowing photographs. He let the cigarettes choke his lungs so it gave him an excuse for how hard it felt to breathe. Youngjae tears up thinking of it one night while curled up in Daehyun’s hold.

Youngjae loves as much as he can for Daehyun to forget the disgusting unfairness that ripped apart his heart. For every lost year, for every stolen smile, Youngjae tries his hardest to give back at least a fraction of it.

 

\--

 

Night breathes through the window with the curtains drawn on a humid Tuesday. The empty box of bon bons lie on Youngjae’s bedside table, unfortunately Youngjae’s doing despite him insisting he’d save it all for Daehyun. Daehyun doesn’t like it as much since the caramel gets nauseating after a while, but he did order another three cartons online for Youngjae. Not before teasing him for his belly, of course.

“What are you typing?” Daehyun wheezes groggily. His cheek is pressed against Youngjae’s side, blue light from Youngjae’s phone pricking his face. “Your assignment?”

“It’s my diary entry for today,” Youngjae returns, propped up against the headboard.

“You keep a diary?”

“Yeah. When we’re old and I want to remember the stuff we did, I can read them,” Youngjae replies. He feels Daehyun smile against his skin, a remnant he wishes he could keep.

Daehyun’s voice tickles. “Can I read it too, then?”

“No. I complain about you a lot,” Youngjae answers. Daehyun instantly jolts up, large eyes fixated on the other.

“What did I do?” He questions in incredulity.

Youngjae purses his lips in contemplation. “You stunk up the place yesterday with your breath. And you didn’t turn off the bathroom light last night.”

“I didn’t know you were the type to hold such small grudges. It was just one time that I forgot,” Daehyun grouses. He huffs into his hand and sniffs. “And I can’t help if I have bad breath.”

Youngjae just barely manages to keep a straight face, continuing to type. “And I can’t help it if I find it stinky.”

There’s a lapse of quietness before Daehyun snatches away Youngjae’s phone, rolling over. Youngjae widens his eyes and fumbles over Daehyun, yelling, “Hey! Give that back!”

Daehyun pushes him away with one arm, Youngjae desperately grappling with him. Daehyun reads aloud, “ _Daehyun’s cute when he’s annoyed. His brows go out of shape when he frowns. I’m going to annoy him more often.”_

Youngjae wrestles the phone from him but the damage has already been done. Daehyun stares at him with an annoyingly smug grin that soon melts into the soft grey of his eyes.

“You’re a sadist, kid,” Daehyun chuckles. He leans back against Youngjae’s chest and chortles to himself after a while. His bouts of baritone laughter are like a broken record player. Youngjae spares him a quizzical glance when Daehyun grins up at him blindingly.

“You’re not too right in the head yourself,” Youngjae remarks when Daehyun chuckles once more.

“I’m just happy,” Daehyun hums, letting out a low breath. “Haven’t been this happy in a long while.”

“I’ll call you smelly more often, then,” Youngjae drawls. He stops short when Daehyun rises, climbing over Youngjae and gently taking the phone out of his hand. He lifts Youngjae’s chin and seals their lips.

It’s breathtaking how Daehyun kisses. He layers his lips with the need to breathe Youngjae in and the contrary want to treat him with only tenderness. Pull like a song from the remnants of his torn compositions, press like he’d never want a gap between them. Youngjae slants his head and grasps Daehyun’s jaw, kissing back softly.

“I love you,” Daehyun breathes—quietly, as usual. Youngjae answers with another kiss, hands slipping to Daehyun’s neck. They part and Daehyun rolls back onto the bed.

“Why’d you say you haven’t been happy in a long while?” Youngjae says, putting aside his phone and scooting under the covers. “All this time we were dating, you’ve been unhappy?” He feigns an offended gasp.

“No, idiot.” He pulls Youngjae closer till their bodies touch. “Move over. You’re going to fall at this rate.” The bed is small, but not small enough for Daehyun’s excuse.

“Then what did you mean?” Youngjae questions, leaving his words to sear against Daehyun’s chest. He has a good inkling why, but he doesn’t want to leave it to seethe like the infection it is. Not unless Daehyun wants to keep quiet about it.

Daehyun shrugs. “I don’t know.” He sweeps aside Youngjae’s hair and shuts his eyes. “Just means I haven’t been happy for a long time.”

He begins humming a soft tune. “ _The things I’ve broken and left behind—you’ve mended and brought them back to me.”_ He prods his tongue against the wall of his cheek.

“Don’t plagiarise. I’ll sue you,” Youngjae warn, inciting another laugh from Daehyun. Some quietness later, he says, “I’m happy you’re happy.”

Daehyun smiles. “I’ll be happy more often then.”

“Good,” Youngjae returns. “Junhong’s coming over next Friday night for dinner. Do you want to join us?”

“He is?” Daehyun asks. His subtle grimace gives away his thoughts.

“Mm. You don’t have to come. I don’t want to rush things.” Youngjae burrows into the sheets. “He’s just stopping by to see me.”

“Oh, alright.” Daehyun licks his lips and broaches, “You really told him about us?”

“Yeah. I told you. He doesn’t mind these sort of things,” Youngjae sleepily murmurs.

“I know, but does he mind me?”

Youngjae glimpses up at Daehyun. “Why would he?”

Daehyun shrugs. “Uh… I’m not very impressive.”

“Dude, you’re pretty much the typical girl’s ideal type,” Youngjae answers with a laugh. “You’re hot; you’ve got a good job; you’re a part-time musician.”

“Wow, you’re actually being nice to me,” Daehyun grins, a lovely boyishness radiating from him. “Must be my lucky day.” He pats Youngjae’s head. “You’re hot too.”

“If you think that, then stop making fun of my stomach. It’s flat most of the time.”

“Most of the time.” Daehyun twines an arm around Youngjae’s hips. “I’ll check my schedule and tell you later.”

“Okay.” Youngjae relaxes into Daehyun’s touch and brings up out of curiosity, “Did you tell your relatives about me?”

After a pause, Daehyun replies gingerly, “I haven’t. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Youngjae kisses Daehyun to stop his further words and shuts his eyes. “Hurry up and sleep, idiot.”

 

\--

 

Daehyun works overtime on the night Junhong visits. His words say he’s not done with work but his voice tells that he’s not ready yet.

Youngjae doesn’t whine about it. Within the fact that Daehyun may be afraid of showing who he is to Junhong—that he doesn’t see himself as good enough or perhaps because he’s a man—Youngjae briefly wonders about other reasons. People are like libraries and not everyone wants to leave behind a chapter for the reference books to keep—and for others to read. Especially about something they’re not particularly proud of.

Youngjae had his fears when he told Junhong he had a boyfriend, despite Junhong having had no problems with one of his good friends coming out a decade ago. After all, people can change their minds. Thankfully, Junhong stared only for a few seconds before congratulating him with a grin.

Youngjae hasn’t gotten around to telling his parents about Daehyun. He’s not embarrassed of dating Daehyun, but it’d be quite the sting to be twice of a disappointment. Perhaps the worst thing of all about his parents is that they love him no matter what bullshit he gets himself into. Just once, Youngjae doesn’t want encouragements or awkward smiles from them as a bid attempt to always dote on their oldest son. He deserves scornful censures and disdainful glares. Maybe then, he’d feel a little bit better about himself.

Over dinner, Youngjae talks with Junhong about memories and growing up. How Junhong used to slouch and hide behind his curtain fringe during his emo phase. How they used to fight because Junhong’s favourite gothic rock music videos would play on TV at the same time as soccer games. How they’d get punished by their parents and stand facing the wall by the clothes cabinet.

They talk about now—Yeseul’s coming check-up, their father’s new hobby of collecting old coins, Junhong’s work. Beyond yesterday and today, they simmer into a conversation about fearsome yet exciting tomorrows. Well, exciting for Junhong, mostly.

Before Junhong leaves, he remarks that Youngjae should fix his doorbell and Youngjae fills in that it’d been broken since a week ago. He kicks Junhong under the table at his grade-school teasing of how Daehyun must visit him a lot.

It’s always bittersweet to see Junhong. He’s a reminder of home which Youngjae exiled himself from. He misses his parents sometimes so it’s good to hear from Junhong how they’re doing.

Youngjae dozes off to the forgotten touch of wrinkled hands, his mother switching off the lights whenever he falls asleep reading.

Daehyun comes over an hour after Junhong leaves. Youngjae misses the knocking at his door and the missed calls till 1AM. Awaking to silence, he checks his phone and scrambles to the door.

He hadn’t been expecting Daehyun to still be outside when he swung open the door. Daehyun gazes up at him from the doorstep with the takeout box untouched in his lap.

“Oh my god,” Youngjae blurts, hastily holding open the door. Daehyun wordlessly looks up at him for a moment more before standing.

“Shit, I’m so sorry. I fell asleep after my brother left. How long have you been waiting out here?”

Youngjae wipes away the sweat on Daehyun’s forehead as guilt seeps into his chest. “Why didn’t you go home, you idiot? Seriously,” he breathes, Daehyun simply staring at him. “Let’s go to my room. I’ll turn on the air-conditioning.”

He stops short when Daehyun pats his head. “It’s fine, kid,” he chuckles, finally speaking. He pats down Youngjae’s bed hair and brings up the takeout box. “I bought cheese fries. They’re probably soggy now, though.”

Youngjae bites his tongue. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. God, this feeling sucks.

“It’s alright. I didn’t wait that long.” He gently strokes Youngjae’s head and heads to the bathroom. “Don’t be sorry. I’m going to go wash my face.”

Youngjae watches as Daehyun disappears into the toilet. He glances to his phone and the missed calls from three hours ago. Between them, messages weaved with questions and apologies are littered.

_Hey, did you go out? You left your lights on, idiot._

The transition in Daehyun’s text messages makes Youngjae wince. He flits through another, another, another.

_Are you mad at me? I’m sorry. I’ll meet your brother next time, promise._

A few more flicker past with the cordiality draining from Daehyun’s texts, seriousness puncturing urgency into his words.

_Are you sleeping or are you outside? I’ll wait for you to come home just in case. I can pick you up too. Just tell me where you are and I’ll go over right now._

_If you’re angry with me, let’s talk, please. I’m really sorry for what I did wrong._

Youngjae puts his phone away when the bathroom door clicks. Daehyun’s collar is damp and water cascades down the acne scars on his cheeks to his neck. He strides over to join Youngjae on the couch, angling his chin to the takeout box.

“You don’t want it?” He picks it up and shoves a piece into his mouth. “It’s not too bad,” he remarks between his chewing.

“I wasn’t angry with you,” Youngjae says, remorse tinging his voice. He reaches over to take some and munches up the soft fries. “I dozed off and forgot about the lights. Sorry.”

“I figured.” He hands the box over and places his hand on Youngjae’s thigh, caressing delicately. “Stop apologising. I really didn’t wait long.”

“You texted me at ten,” Youngjae mumbles.

“I went home and came back to wait,” Daehyun provides carelessly, ending off with a groan. “You read all my messages? Ugh, I was being dramatic, sorry. Damn it, now I’m embarrassed.” He lets out a light laugh, sighing and resting against Youngjae.

“Sorry,” Youngjae heaves. Their reflections quiver over the musty television screen, Daehyun blinking sluggishly. His expression is a vague silhouette of a few weeks ago when he’d dropped by after Junhong left, weariness clouded over his lost look.

“Say sorry one more time and you’re going to get it.” Daehyun grabs the remote control and conks Youngjae on the head, switching on the television. With a cheek pressed against Youngjae’s shoulder, he tiredly shuts his eyes as a midnight arthouse film rolls.

Beneath the sheets, Daehyun keeps close to Youngjae’s chest as they restlessly sleep. Daehyun’s breathing is laboured over Youngjae’s skin and his arm clings tight over Youngjae’s hips. His forehead rests against Youngjae and his nose brushes against his ribs every now and then.

The atmosphere is layered with a strange melancholy. There isn’t any scrunching tension but Youngjae feels the weight on his chest. Daehyun’s exhales are like tattoos all over his flesh, writing in the words he always forgets to say through his guitar strums.

Somehow, it stings. Youngjae threads his fingers delicately through Daehyun’s hair, staring down at the mop of messy raven.

“You aren’t sleeping?” Youngjae questions in a minuscule voice.

Daehyun presses himself harder into Youngjae. He inhales like an attempt to breathe Youngjae in. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” Youngjae murmurs.

“It’s not your fault,” Daehyun sighs. “I was tired so I wasn’t thinking straight and overreacted.” He shifts up to level their eyes and flares his nostrils. “Stop looking like you accidentally stabbed me in the guts.”

Youngjae smothers back a chortle as Daehyun grins, thousand watts carved into the fibre of his chapped lips. Youngjae leans forward and pecks him.

“How was work today?”

“The usual.” Daehyun shrugs. “How was dinner with your brother?”

“It was nice. Junhong keeps getting yelled at by his wife for worrying so much,” Youngjae snickers. “He won’t let her drink boiled water, only Evian mineral water.”

“Wow. Your brother’s… a good husband,” Daehyun guffaws. He purses his lips and pats Youngjae’s tummy, slyly teasing, “Want me to get you Evian water too?”

“Ah. You still haven’t gotten over your pregnant kink,” Youngjae laments, throwing Daehyun a look of wry sympathy. “You should go for therapy, Daehyun. I don’t want things to get harder for you.”

“Was that a pun?” Daehyun remarks with a raised brow, ducking down and tickling Youngjae’s sides. Youngjae shrieks and almost kicks his boyfriend in the crotch.

“Hey, let’s go out this weekend,” Youngjae wheezes as they calm down from their bout of wrestling. It’s almost embarrassing how two almost-thirty-year-old men are fighting like preteen boys, but it makes Youngjae brim with an unadulterated happiness.

“Where do you want to go?” Daehyun falls back on the bed and Youngjae climbs into his hold.

“I got a voucher for this escape room at Itaewon. It’ll be fun.”

“I haven’t been to one before,” Daehyun mentions, curiosity dousing his irises. “Okay. Do you want to watch a movie after that?”

“Yeah,” Youngjae bubbles eagerly, climbing over Daehyun to switch on the lights. He gets his phone to check out the movies screening, both of them debating over which one to catch.

It’s nice to have company under the sheets and warmth on the other side of the bed. Youngjae remembers Daehyun through the brushes of their elbows and how Daehyun gazes at him more so than the movie list. How he likes to hold Youngjae’s hand even when they’re at home and his bad habit rubbing below his nose when he’s deep in thought.

Before they sleep, Daehyun remembers to turn off the lights.

 

\--

 

On the following Tuesday where the highway is jammed, Youngjae prods over an extra key to Daehyun.

“I made another one for you,” Youngjae intones absentmindedly, fixated on his assignment due in three days. It’s another trite love story where a boss and his innocent secretary fall in love at first sight, a flimsy excuse of a premise to jump straight into romantic office sex without it being too cheap.

_He cornered her against the table as her hands fumbled with the paperwork._ Youngjae let his mind wander minutes ago before Daehyun arrived, flushing at his sudden conjectures of Daehyun slamming him into the desk.

Evening trickles over Daehyun’s sun-kissed skin as he settles opposite Youngjae at the table. He peers at the keys with doe eyes and blathers, “Hey, it’s alright. I was seriously just overreacting that day. You don’t have to do this.”

“I already made it, so just take it,” Youngjae mumbles. He momentarily turns cross-eyed, skimming through the paragraphs of vulgar sex. He instinctively hesitates in typing when he chances upon another _said,_ rummaging through his mind for a synonym he hadn’t already butchered.

Daehyun is staring at the keys dangling from his fingers, as if it’s an alien species. “You’re seriously trusting me with your keys?”

“Mm,” Youngjae mutters.

“What if I steal your stuff?”

“There’s nothing worth robbing here,” Youngjae deadpans. “If you were a thief, you’ve invested a lot of time into someone who has three dollars in his bank account. You should have stopped at us being friends.”

Daehyun lowly snickers. He’s dressed in a faded black T-shirt and a pair of loose beige cargo shorts, one they bought together at the nearby department store.

“I could sell your TV.”

“Go ahead,” Youngjae murmurs. Daehyun momentarily inspects the glinting key before speaking once more.

“You’re really trusting this to me?” He questions. “I could go into your house anytime, you know.”

“Yes,” Youngjae stresses, sparing Daehyun a sullen look. Daehyun finally allows him some silence but it lapses in a few minutes. He blithely chuckles out of nowhere, disrupting Youngjae’s train of thought.

Youngjae lifts his gaze from his laptop screen and furrows his brows. The ear-to-ear grin teeming along Daehyun’s lips is utterly comical. He merely has the plain metal key in one palm, yet he’s staring at it as if it’s holding a mini comedy show on his hand. Youngjae told his punchline way too long ago for Daehyun to only be laughing now.

“Why are you laughing?” Youngjae asks with several blinks. Daehyun meets his gaze and clasps the key in his hand.

“Nothing,” he hums, brimming with a lustrous smile like a summer cocktail of sunshine and beach sand. Youngjae curls his fingers as the butterflies begin whispering into his lungs.

“Are you really going to sell my TV?” Youngjae blurts.

Daehyun erupts with buoyant laughter. He nudges Youngjae’s laptop screen down and leans over to kiss him, cupping Youngjae’s jaw firmly. They part with a string of saliva adamantly tying them together, Youngjae fluttering his wide eyes.

“Thanks. I won’t lose it.” Daehyun sieves out his wallet and hooks the key with his other keys. “And I won’t sell your TV.”

“You better not,” Youngjae churns out, still surprised by the sudden kiss. He spends a moment framing Daehyun’s handsome smile before returning to his work, lips curled softly. He hadn’t known such a simple gesture would make Daehyun so happy. Whether he thought of something amusing or he’s gleeful Youngjae gave him the key, it’s always sweet to see Daehyun happy.

“I’ll finish up the introduction and we’ll go, alright?”

Daehyun takes out his guitar from the case and strums, nodding contentedly.

Busking is a vibrant language to Daehyun where he speaks to the flickering faces with his guitar. He isn’t the type to revel in attention but he enjoys busking nonetheless. He picked it up a few months before he met Youngjae as a way to stop cooping himself up in the house. It’s carefree, unlike concert performances where people build expectations beneath the tickets they buy. Whoever has the time stays to listen while those who don’t whisk away, like an open-ended conversation. Some tap their feet as a reply, others spare a few coins and some smiles.

Today’s songs thread another fascinating spell into a summer night’s tone. The melodies are serene like the hums of a passer-by minding his own business. It drips just a little of love, inked into the slow 4/4 time. _Andante, legato, con amore_.

Youngjae sits by Daehyun’s side on the curb, capsizing into every note. His eyes glaze over the daily affairs of a metropolitan while the intricate city lights fall apart in his irises. He wants to write about urban misery and the fatigue of repetition, living in uniform apartments and greyscale. The burnout has the white-collared worker craving an escape through pills and shivers through his spine. Tokyo withers with dark-suited throngs as a backstory.

_Hey There Delilah_ slows soothingly to a stop. In Youngjae’s periphery, he notices Daehyun wordlessly gazing at him.

He turns to Daehyun, taking in his half-lidded eyes and his dark circles. Youngjae tilts his head.

“What?”

The undertones scribbled into Daehyun’s expression is difficult to decipher. There’s a shade of resignation and a scratch of bruised blue, perhaps a new dosage of tiredness.

Daehyun churns out a soft smile. He averts his gaze and awkwardly shifts. “I really want to kiss you,” he breathes weakly.

Youngjae flits his lashes. All of a sudden, they become two lovelorn teens on a first date in April, sweet nothings accompanied with nervous gestures. Heat tickles Youngjae’s cheeks and doodles a watery blush on. He lowers his eyes.

“Shall we go home, then?” Youngjae asks softly.

Daehyun puts down his guitar and nods.

Halfway on their quiet stroll home, Daehyun pulls Youngjae into an alley where the lights can’t reach. He kisses Youngjae into the wall, inhaling Youngjae’s thin gasps and drowning in Youngjae’s pull on his shirt.

The page turns and they’re on the bed, Youngjae’s legs wrapped feebly around Daehyun’s waist. Youngjae immerses in the feel of washed linens and Daehyun filling him to the brink. Daehyun nibbles along his neck, thrusting slow for Youngjae to adjust.

Youngjae wheezes as his fingers tremble over Daehyun’s arm. He stifles a whimper while Daehyun inscribes a love song along his collarbone. As they come apart, Daehyun whispers insistently into Youngjae’s skin.

“I love you.” He says it with the charm of a child learning his first words and the innocence of one who trusts blindly.

“I love you,” he rasps again, voice soft and vulnerable. It’s alluring how raw and romantic he can be when they’re lost in the need to be interlaced.

“I love you too,” Youngjae croaks, indulging in how Daehyun lifts his hips with rough hands. Daehyun leaves himself warm and wet inside of Youngjae, white trickling down Youngjae’s legs.

It’s intoxicating.

 

\--

 

The crippling infatuation files away as time passes, moulding a tender love that has Youngjae’s heart still pounding when he hears Daehyun knock on the door.

Daehyun is a home where his touches become the felt of Youngjae’s blankets and his words a playlist for sleepless nights. He’s where Youngjae keeps his heart, in a small bedside table along with trinkets, fleeting bickers and yellowing polaroids.

They fall back into mundane patterns where writing becomes a creeping disease for Youngjae and Daehyun never gains back the lost years of his life. It still hurts, but it’s okay. Perhaps because Youngjae has Daehyun’s voice to see him through the night, and Daehyun marks the hours of the day with Youngjae’s calls.

 

\--

 

Some weeks later, Daehyun and Youngjae buy a nice roll of fabric. It’s dyed an exquisite carmine with gold scrawls on one side. On the way home, Daehyun argues with him in the car over which girl groups are good.

Youngjae accuses him of prioritising looks over talents. He subsequently says that since Daehyun loves miniskirts so much, he’ll wear one out and embarrass him.

Daehyun doesn’t reject the idea. 

 

\--

 

Thursdays are slow like church bells in the distance. Youngjae often goes to Daehyun’s house on such evenings and curls himself up in the scent of Daehyun’s fabric softener, searching for inspiration in the wall crevices. Most of the time, he goes over because Daehyun likes seeing him when he comes home from work.

Places say a lot, Youngjae thinks. He notices the empty ash tray go missing two months after he first visited Daehyun’s apartment. Now, a couple of Youngjae’s clothes hang in Daehyun’s closet, filling the empty half.

“You can have the study room. I don’t use it, really.” Daehyun purses his lips, inspecting the living room for any better spaces. “We can put a table in the balcony too, if you prefer somewhere with a better view.”

Youngjae tussles in his lap. “I haven’t even moved in yet,” he chortles, aimlessly surfing the net on his phone. He extends an arm and taps on the tangerine stain below Daehyun’s collar.

“Gross. Were you walking around your office like that all day?”

Daehyun notices the smear and yanks at his shirt. “I got so excited thinking of you during lunch that I slobbered all over myself.”

Youngjae lets out a phenomenal groan as he flops onto his side, melting into Daehyun’s coffee laughter. “You better have a stain on your shirt every day, then.”

Velvet wheezes into the atmosphere on a warm night in March. Youngjae skims through his emails, a routine that sticks out of repetition despite the futility. Some offers are from curious souls who wish to see how their plot ideas unfurl. Others are from small companies that skimp for the month with the aid of a freelancer. Whoever proposes a lower rate gets swooped up till more lucrative fish swim along. It almost always comes with the condition that the contractor owns all credit to the piece.

He opens up an email from a company he does not recognise. Browsing through it swiftly, he does a double take when the unfamiliar words fail to process in his mind. He expects pre-written compliments that wind up in a month-long contract as a lowly-paid ghostwriter, or rejections citing that they aren’t interested in hiring at the moment.

Instead, his eyes sweep over a paragraph of formalities, introducing themselves as a modest publishing agency searching for budding author to keep under their wing. The next segment opens with some praises, the recruiter having seen his portfolio on a website for freelancers. It ends off asking if he would like him to publish with them.

Youngjae brings his phone so close that his nose nearly touches his screen.

“What are you doing?” Daehyun chuckles, nudging the phone away. Youngjae hastily pries it back, wide eyes distractedly running through the words again.

“Oh my god,” Youngjae blurts, abruptly sitting up. He slowly comprehends every sentence in case he had misread, letting them simmer in like a fresh sting.

“What?” Daehyun blinks at him, ducking his head slightly to get a peep. “What happened?”

“Oh my god,” Youngjae repeats in a drawn-out breath, erupting into a short laugh. The disbelief and sheer exuberance bubbles sweetly through his veins. It’s not possible, is it? The long seven years have almost erased any possibility in his mind that he will ever be picked up.

Youngjae plops back into Daehyun’s lap. He buries his face into Daehyun’s stomach and yells incoherently, squeezing the man tight.

It’s impossible. His hands pull harder at fabric and he briefly wonders if it’s a dream concocted from the comforts of Daehyun’s lap.

A publisher actually _likes_ his writing.

Daehyun swipes his phone and scrolls through the email. He stares down with large eyes before bellowing even louder, “Oh my god.” Youngjae doesn’t get to see the brilliant grin that scribbles across Daehyun’s face as the man wrenches him up.

“This is amazing!” He embraces the younger man tightly, nearly suffocating him. “I knew someone would pick you up. You’re too good for people to not notice you.”

“Wait, no, it might be a scam,” Youngjae says, scrambling off his cloud nine before it rises too high and worsens the fall onto concrete. He chews down his blind euphoria and double checks the website and the sender’s email. Daehyun waits with bated breath.

It turns up on a neat website that lists several books for sale. “I… I think it’s legitimate,” Youngjae exhales, glancing up to look Daehyun in the eyes. “But I might be wrong.”

“It is legitimate. It’s got an address and everything,” Daehyun readily assures. He tugs Youngjae onto his lap and gleefully wraps his arms around his boyfriend.

Burrows his nose into Youngjae’s hair, Daehyun whispers, “I’m really happy for you, Youngjae.”

“It… feels kind of unreal,” Youngjae wheezes, resting on Daehyun’s shoulder. “I’ve been waiting seven years for something like this.”

Daehyun hugs him tighter. “You deserve it.”

Youngjae squirms. He mumbles, “I don’t know about that. Anyway, it doesn’t mean I’ll be successful. I’ll probably sell zero copies and they’ll drop me right away.”

“Don’t say that, you idiot.” Daehyun knocks his head. “There aren’t many people who get to have their books published. Let yourself be happy over it.”

Youngjae breaks out into a radiant smile, inwardly conceding. “I still can’t believe this. A company wants to publish my stuff. They actually want to.”

He stops short, sincerely mulling over the prospect that always seemed too far out of reach. For a thousand nights, Youngjae rotted into the couch, questioning every living fibre of himself for chasing after something so meaningless. He sold his words to write about repetitive sex and everything he didn’t want, all so he could put the only skill he had to use. Redundant became his most used moniker for himself and his dark circles began to look more comical. He was nothing short of an imbecile but he walked too far to go back empty-handed.

“I’ll finally get to be an author,” Youngjae breathes.

“Author Yoo Youngjae,” Daehyun sings proudly, ruffling Youngjae’s hair. “You always were, kid.”

“Oh god, I better reply them.” Youngjae scoots off Daehyun and hurries to his laptop. “How should I start?”

Daehyun chuckles, taking a seat beside him.

“Like you always do.”

 

\--

 

Maybe things do work out when enough time passes and happy ever afters do exist. Youngjae wore a pitiful face as a starving writer where his bones bled with foolish routine and an overdue burnout. He was meant for penny tosses and empty encouragements; he was a real-life warning to silly kids never to be so delusional. After these many years, it is rather scary that he should actually become what he’d been trying for. A misfit, a disparity, perhaps. He almost feels like he doesn’t deserve it.

Despite the daily self-loathing spiels, Youngjae learns to accept that most people are undeserving of what they have. He finds himself liking his reflection a bit more, along with Daehyun’s love bites. They abandon the self-publishing idea and Daehyun keeps the materials in a drawer under his desk.

Being good enough is an unusual skin.

“Author Yoo Youngjae!” Daehyun calls from the kitchen, subsequently popping into the bedroom with a plate of shrimp noodles. “Stop holing yourself up in here and eat your lunch, kid.”

“Stop calling me that,” Youngjae grumbles, barely deviating his gaze from the screen. His eyes hurt from hours spent glaring at a blank page. His metaphors are overused. Foreshadowing is a cliché, especially if it revolves around some gloomy weather. How can he encompass the whole plot well in the perspective he chose?

Youngjae broods till a headache scrapes at him. Daehyun settles down beside him. “You’re not going to get anywhere by forcing yourself to write.”

“I can’t wait for inspiration,” Youngjae stresses. “They want to see more. I only have one more week.”

“I know, but you need a break. You’re stressed out.”

As the text cursor blinks up mockingly at him, Youngjae concedes and claps his laptop close. He takes the plate of noodles and heads out to the living room, sitting at the coffee table. Daehyun follows him out.

“Thanks,” he muffles while chewing. “Sorry for being cranky.”

“It’s okay.” Daehyun roams to the kitchen and gets his own plate, his portion amazingly larger despite Youngjae being a big eater himself.

Youngjae is thankful that Daehyun has been understanding after the offer came. He brings Youngjae out to cafés for him to work and doesn’t complain about the lack of dates. Most of the time, the noise disrupts Youngjae, so he usually ensconces himself in Daehyun’s study or his bedroom. His apartment is a good place to rest his bones.

“Why don’t you send your old works to them? The ones you haven’t sent,” Daehyun suggests.

“They suck. I need to write something that’s actually good,” Youngjae heaves. He notices Daehyun’s squint and pouts. “I know what you’re going to say.”

“They found _How We Breathe_ and _Candles_ good. That’s why they asked to see more.” Daehyun blathers, shoving shrimp into his mouth.

“And I might screw it up if I don’t send them something a lot better,” Youngjae pointedly returns. “Those were so mediocre.”

“They’re good,” Daehyun rebounds. “You’re putting too much pressure on yourself. They wouldn’t have reached out to you if they thought your stories were mediocre.”

Youngjae parts his lips to argue but Daehyun prods a shrimp into his mouth. “You know I’m right.”

Youngjae leans back against the couch and sighs. He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Why do you think that?” Daehyun frowns and scoots closer, hand finding its usual place on Youngjae’s thigh.

“Because I’m not good. They’re just giving me some sympathy,” Youngjae wheezes. “They might have even sent the wrong email. Besides, it’s not like they sent me a contract. They just asked if I’m interested.”

“You’re being ridiculous. The email wrote out your name. How many ‘Youngjae’s are there in Korea who write and applied to that agency?” Daehyun responds with incredulity.

“There might be one.”

“And that one is you.” Daehyun brings up a hand and strokes down Youngjae’s hair. “You got the offer because a publisher thinks you’re good.” He seriously stares into Youngjae’s eyes. “You need to learn to accept that.”

Youngjae slurps up his noodles. “It’s hard,” he mumbles with a lengthy exhale. “I’ve spent seven years just begging for this opportunity and it suddenly drops into my lap.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it,” Daehyun intones. “So what if you took a while to get here? It doesn’t change the fact that you did.”

“Yeah, but… I’ve been rejected so many times,” Youngjae’s voice shrivels.

“It’s not easy to become a published writer, kid. You know that,” Daehyun reminds, squeezing Youngjae’s thigh. “Without connections, you’ve got to fight with so many people sending in their works at the same time. And publishers don’t exactly look for outstanding quality, do they? Just what sells.” He knits his brows together and muses, “Like that book called, uh… Fifty cents of grapes.”

“ _Shades of Grey_ , you dumbass,” Youngjae bursts out laughing while Daehyun grins unabashedly. “You said it wrongly on purpose, didn’t you?” Youngjae pushes him.

“That’s not the point.” Daehyun beams, accomplishment shimmering from his satisfied simper. He hums, “Believe that you’re good, kid. It’s sad if an author doesn’t love his own stories.”

“That sounds like some Dr. Seuss quote,” Youngjae chuckles.

“Seriously. Be proud of yourself. You’re good and a company even asked you to join them.” He grasps Youngjae’s face and forces the man to look him in the eyes. “Do you understand that? You’re _great_ ; that’s why a publisher wants you.”

“Sure.” Youngjae squirms out of Daehyun’s grip and even though he rolls his eyes, the words simmer into his chest. Perhaps Daehyun’s right that he should be less harsh on himself. It’s unfamiliar to actually be picked up for a writing job beyond the realm of ghostwriting short, mostly indulgent fictions. That’s why it feels uncomfortable.

Instead of wallowing in self-doubt, he should embrace the fact that he finally has a fighting chance. Despite the wasted years tailing him like a shadow, maybe Daehyun’s right.

Maybe Youngjae is good enough.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the feedback! TvT I read every comment and it means so much that you guys would take the time to leave your thoughts. I'll reply them after the story has ended so the replies won't contain spoilers hahaha. Also, there's one last chapter to go!

 

**[open-ended](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuC2sc-1CMU&list=PLflKpEjRZwlfbseXgO4AlUJqjzOnGqPKe) **

_Daehyun/Youngjae_

 

 

 

The words sting.

As the numbness wears away like a failing defence mechanism, the desperate excuses bleed out in a pathetic attempt to deny. Youngjae flutters his lashes, going over the words again. Just in case he read wrong. Just in case he somehow managed to misread the sentences staring up at him.

Maybe they sent it to the wrong person. They just told him they were interested in his works, so why would they turn around and tell him otherwise? Just the other day, they wrote about how they enjoyed the way his stories flowed and thought he would match well with their company.

So why would they turn right around and say they have too much on their plate? Are they joking? Things had been going well a week ago for them to ask for more. What changed? Were his new pieces not good enough?

Where did it go wrong?

Youngjae runs over the words again. The feeling in his fingers have long deteriorated into an uncomfortable stillness, almost distant despite being right in front of him. He feels a bit winded, a bit lost, a bit like he’s about to cry.

He licks his lips as his eyes glaze over the words once more. 

_Sorry._

Youngjae’s shoulders fall. He sits slouched against the back of his chair, rubbing the nape of his neck. Well, it’s not the first time he’s been rejected. He should be used to it.

Back to square one.

His blank eyes flicker back at him in his reflection, the laptop display having dimmed. Youngjae taps the keyboard and reads it just one more time, because it can’t really be that they would be so fickle to spit such devastating compliments at him to reel him in and toss him aside a week later. Perhaps they found someone better. Maybe he’s just not up to their standard. Or they overestimated their budget and can’t accommodate another writer. Youngjae wants to ask, but he knows the answer with a seething conviction.

His shoulders feel strangely heavy for some reason. Youngjae gets up and stretches his arms, still quite out of it. He goes to the bathroom to wash his face. Splash, the water trickles down his face off his chin. Another time and it goes down his neck underneath his baggy shirt. It’s cold, and Youngjae tries to rub away the words from his mind.

It takes him a few moments to lift his head and meet his eyes in the mirror. The thirty years have scrawled into his skin without mercy, grey tattooed underneath his sunken eyes and new lines vague against his cheeks. His bad habit of picking his lips while writing has made a subtle ridge in the corner.

It’s tiring. It really is, Youngjae thinks, as he churns out the most pathetic, watery smile at himself. His throat constricts and it burns with the tears he has clawed back into his guts every time he shuts his laptop to the same four walls.

God, why is he so fucking pathetic? An opportunity came to him after so many years and he couldn’t even hold on to it. It was so easy. If he’d just worked harder on his pieces, if he’s sent them earlier, maybe they wouldn’t have changed their mind and closed their offer. But he had to fuck it all up like the worthless bastard he is.

It’s so tiring. Youngjae sinks just a little as the years bend down against his back. A year more for his mother who still works even though she’s sixty, two more for his father who winces whenever he walks up the stairs. Seven years. Eighty-four months. Two-thousand days and he still fucking can’t tell that he’s not cut out for this shit.

The tears spill over Youngjae’s lashes and he quietly sighs, somehow accustomed to it despite feeling as though he’d forgotten how to cry. When you go through the same humdrum of seven years, slouched over your laptop into the dead of night, it’s easy to forget how to breathe—how to feel anything beyond the meaningless routine of tap, tap, tap. None of his works are good. Youngjae knows it, so why does he still try?

It’s a brimming hollowness in his chest that’s hard to pin down. It scratches into his skin and makes him tired of living. In it, there’s a trickle of bitterness at everyone else who lived like him in their younger years but had the common sense not to end up like this. He survives just barely through writing sex because eighteen-year-old him thought he’d lead a more fulfilling life doing what he loved. His parents pretend they’re infatuated with the grind of nine-to-five weekdays so their son won’t feel as embarrassed that he’s still being taken care of. 

These past seven years, he spends every damn day searching up job offers till his eyes want to turn inside out, writing worthless pieces for some undiscerning girl to blush over in the subway and toss after a few months after. This is what he romanticised life to be, doing what he loved. This—this is the godforsaken conclusion of every little decision he made on his own years ago.

When did writing become so miserable when he used to stay up late, excitedly writing stupid plots for his own enjoyment rather than for someone to read? No matter how his eyes dropped, fourteen-year-old him gleefully penned down each scene in his mind—he and his idiotic Mary Sues who have a thousand talents, how they meet this plain boy who isn’t all that attractive but his personality is so irresistible (not really). He used to scribble ideas onto his palm when inspiration hit and he didn’t have paper.

Now, the weight of his millions of pathetic words weigh down on him like a burdensome reminder. Every night, he restlessly squirms at the time he gives away to sleep as it gnaws the eye circles in. The ticking clock bugged him so much once he got up to take it out of his room, settling down at his computer at 3AM and despicably falling asleep facing a blank page. He can’t sleep knowing the years are stretching over his skin and he hasn’t gotten anywhere. Perhaps a new novel, a short story, the one he hasn’t written is the one that’ll have him hit big.

There’s nothing happy about writing anymore. Youngjae weeps into arm like a child on his first day at preschool, missing his mother and how she used to look at him with so much pride. He cries like he’s at a funeral, for the death of a once blooming love he ruined with his own hands. Somewhere along the way, that mindless love turned into a disfiguring hatred. 

Daehyun’s right. It’s sad when an author doesn’t love his stories anymore. Youngjae abhors the clacking of the keyboard and the bright light scarring into his face. He loathes every damn character he comes up with that never seems to be intriguing enough. Every sentence he writes is an atrocious, worthless mess of plain and boring.

Youngjae doesn’t know what he’s been doing with his life for the past half a decade.

Maybe that’s why Daehyun’s weary eyes look so familiar sometimes. 

Evening falls apart into Youngjae’s memories, grating against his throat. Daehyun calls an hour later when the sun starts to set. Youngjae declines his calls once, twice, thrice, before finally picking up his phone.

“Hey, kid, are you busy?” Daehyun questions. “You rejected my call three times.”

Youngjae exhales gingerly, afraid of how precarious his lungs are. He wants to tell Daehyun he’s an idiot for believing in him. He wants to say he’s sorry too, and that even a fucking clown like him has enough pride to feel humiliated.

“Hey, sorry. Can you come over tomorrow instead?” Youngjae chuckles, threading a hand messily through his hair.

The concern that immediately permeates Daehyun’s words is funny. “What’s wrong?” He asks, urgency clenched into his tone. “Youngjae, are you okay?”

“It’s nothing. Really,” Youngjae assures.

“Youngjae, what’s wrong?” Daehyun’s voice softens. “Tell me.”

Youngjae flutters his lashes. He breathes, “You know that company I was gushing over like a fucking idiot? They took back their offer.” He stops short to compose his voice, else his words shudder even more.

Daehyun stops short. “Youngjae,” he starts, “I’m sorr-”

“I don’t really want to talk, so don’t come over today. Sorry.”

Youngjae cuts the call without waiting for a reply. 

It’s an art to forget how to breathe, Youngjae thinks. You live in patterns so much that everything loses its meaning. The regime imprints itself into your bones and you wake up doing the same thing over and over again, till you wither away into nothingness. Till you get sick of the inhales and exhales and think being dead is the same as living. This is what it means to be empty, and it’s the worst kind of empty as it’s all on you.

Slumped on the couch as the scenes crackle by on the television, Youngjae doesn’t think of anything. At half past seven, Youngjae hears the door knob rattle. The lock clicks and the door creaks open gingerly, Daehyun hesitantly peeking in.

Youngjae throws his head back exasperatedly. “I told you, I don’t want to talk,” he says in annoyance, not looking at Daehyun.

Daehyun shuts the door behind him. His fingers curl by his side as he stands at the doorway. “I bought you the fried rice you like,” he starts after a prolonged while, pacing over. He takes a seat by Youngjae’s side.

“Thanks.” Youngjae props his arm up on the arm rest and rests his head against it, leaning away from Daehyun. Only now does he realise he had been watching the news.

He can feel Daehyun’s eyes on him, discreet and probably full of unsureness—maybe pity, too. Youngjae memorised the look off Junhong the first few times he’d shared joyously about some contract offer, only to find out it wasn’t as it seemed.

Youngjae wants to apologise to Daehyun for the stupid faith he invested in him. He’s an utter embarrassment to have found someone new to leech off and lead him on along with his own parents.

Just as Daehyun reaches over, Youngjae abruptly rises from the sofa. “I’m going to the bathroom,” he intones, evening out his breathing. He can feel the gall rising through his gullet again.

Youngjae walks faster when he hears Daehyun get up as well. Thankfully, he makes it into the bathroom and shuts the door firmly. 

He sits by the wall and wipes at the irritatingly persistent tears. They streak down the back of his palm and over his wrist like pen strokes. 

Daehyun exhales audibly from the other side of the door. “Youngjae,” he begins softly. “Come out. Let’s talk.”

“Screw off, Daehyun,” Youngjae frustratedly breathes, pressing an arm to his eyes when the tears refuse to stop. “I told you not to come. You have the key so let yourself out.”

“Youngjae-”

“Leave me alone, Daehyun!”

Three beats. Through the thin sliding door, Youngjae can see Daehyun sit down, back pressed against the door. His words come muffled.

“Your stories are good, Youngjae,” he breathes.

Youngjae clenches his hands. “God, just fucking leave me alone, Daehyun!” His words shatter into utter humiliation. “Stop feeding me so much bullshit. I don’t want your pity.”

“I mean it.” Daehyun’s voice drips of sorrow. Youngjae doesn’t hear his sincerity through his gnawing thoughts.

“Please,” Youngjae sobs, heaving pathetically just so his words can come out coherent. “Just go already.”

It takes a long while for the shadow to rise. Eventually, Youngjae hears the front door shut. He pries his elbow off his face and stands, wheezing in fatigue.

Taking a moment to compose himself, he heaves and lugs open the door. Abruptly, he widens his eyes at the sight of Daehyun and hastily tries to shut the door. Daehyun’s regretfully faster and pulls it open, hauling Youngjae into his chest.

“You’re a good writer. You know that,” Daehyun whispers, pressing Youngjae impossibly close like wanting to take away a piece of his sadness.

“Then why’d they turn me down?” Youngjae’s cheek presses against Daehyun’s woollen shirt, words bordering on desperate. “If I’m good, why am I still here, after seven years?”

“Youngjae,” Daehyun loses his sentence to a pause, one Youngjae misconstrues as a revealing wordlessness. 

“I’m so fucking stupid. Everyone else would have given up by now but I just can’t take a hint. How dumb was I to think I’d actually make it?” Youngjae wheezes into Daehyun’s warmth, thankful and ashamed Daehyun’s here to see him at his lowest. The lightheartedness that had initially drawn Daehyun to him is nothing but a sham. He’d just forgotten how miserable he was after getting used to the hopeless days.

Daehyun presses his nose into Yongjae’s hair and breathes, “Don’t say that. Things just don’t work out sometimes. Don’t beat yourself up for it. There’s lots of other publishers out there.”

Tears blot Daehyun’s shirt as Youngjae’s throat tightens. “You don’t _understand_. They didn’t just dump me for no good reason. The hundreds of other companies didn’t reject me for no good reason.” 

He buries his face helplessly into Daehyun’s shoulder, wetness seething into cotton. “God, I’m so useless. My parents still work because of me, do you know that? I’m their oldest son and I can’t even give them a damn cent. I’m the one who’s supposed to be taking care of them but because of me, they have to live such a fucking miserable life.”

His tears burn into his cheeks like a castigation. It’s difficult to inhale amidst his furious spill of words. “Every day, every night, I’m searching for job openings, just begging for someone to take me in. It’s been seven years and I’m so tired, Daehyun. I really am,” he croaks piteously. “I want to give up, but where do all the years I wasted go? Where do _I_ go?”

Youngjae’s fingers clutch despairingly on Daehyun’s shirt. Daehyun hugs him tighter, allowing him to fall apart into his arms.

“I gave my everything to writing,” Youngjae weeps. “It’s all I have; I can’t do anything else. If I can’t even do this, what am I even good for?”

“You’re worth more than your writing, Youngjae. That company doesn’t decide whether you’re good or not.” Daehyun threads his fingers through Youngjae’s hair to keep every little piece of him together. His quiet voice tints with forlornness, breathing in every drop of despondency. 

Youngjae’s shoulders wrack with sobs. “They do. I’m such a fucking failure, Daehyun.” 

“You’re not, Youngjae,” Daehyun whispers into Youngjae’s skin, arms wound firmly around the other’s waist. His exhales are thin and he doesn’t let go of Youngjae.

“You’re not.”

 

\--

 

A few days later, Daehyun plays his guitar at the entrance of a shopping mall. He strums while Youngjae sits by him, buried in Daehyun’s cashmere jacket. It smells of Daehyun, a homely scent Youngjae would like to keep on his skin.

Silhouettes hang over the expanse of grey concrete as passers-by bleed past. Every now and then, they spare Daehyun some penny tosses and dollar notes, footsteps slowing to hear blue.

The notes trickling from Daehyun’s guitar capture an odd beauty. It spells of a melancholy too soft to cry over, leaving its misplaced sadness to overflow one day. The melody whispers some semblance of a person’s stream-of-consciousness while the harmony sews in a slow, numb fatigue. Youngjae has heard Daehyun sing this a few times, so he can pin the words to the tune.

_And if you’re still bleeding, you’re the lucky ones. Because most of our feelings, they are dead, and they are gone._

The tears from some yesterdays ago are tattooed invisibly into Youngjae’s face. Coldness pricks at his lips and he shifts closer to Daehyun. He opens his numb hand and stares at his palm lines.

It’s the first day Youngjae doesn’t think of writing.

He feels relieved.

 

\--

 

Youngjae’s books go into the box beneath the table. He doesn’t stop to skim through some chapters, mulling over the thoughts that went into each and every word. There are some that he winged yet surprisingly turned out decent. He put his heart and soul into the others, meticulously revising line after line while hitting the backspace key. All of them file into the cardboard box without a second glance, be it those he stayed up late on school nights to finish, to those he penned gleefully at the nearby cafés.

Hollowness is putting your heart away into a box, sealing it haphazardly and leaving it to collect dust. Youngjae pretends none of the ten-thousand-word pieces are his dreams and stacks the rest in before taping up the box. They make him nauseous but he doesn’t toss them away. The shelf is left oddly empty without any pages to fill the space, and Youngjae plans to leave it that way.

The higher the cloud nine, the harder the fall onto concrete—and the harder it is to pick the pieces up. No matter what Daehyun denounced about that publishing company after more thorough research, Youngjae still can’t bring himself to write. It’s not about this one time in particular but every little bit of disappointment from years ago. So, he moves the out-of-place shelf back into his room and sleeps the rest of the afternoon away.

Daehyun drops by in the evening and notices the moved shelf. It’s eight o’clock when Youngjae groggily opens his eyes to a pair of arms around his waist, even breaths grazing his neck. He blearily turns to find Daehyun napping by his side and simmers into his grasp.

Youngjae’s gaze settles on the shelf. He frowns at his bolster squished into the middle shelf, filling the whole space.

Shrugging it off, Youngjae tiredly tumbles over, burrowing himself into Daehyun’s chest.

 

\--

 

In between spring and summer, Youngjae spends the weekends over at Daehyun’s place. He learns how to cook a few dishes with Daehyun’s help, even though Daehyun’s not too great of a cook himself. 

Sunshine slithers over their feet, having snuck in through the fluttering curtains. Youngjae pokes at his chicken alfredo fettucine and munches. “It’s not half-bad,” he remarks.

Daehyun makes a face. “You don’t know how it’s supposed to taste like so that’s why it seems okay to you.”

Underneath the coffee table, their toes brush. They sometimes spend their Sundays like this, lazing around at home before Daehyun goes back to work. Once, they were so bored out of their wits that Youngjae posted on a youth forum asking what kids do for fun nowadays.

“Whose fault is it that it tastes bad?” Youngjae returns, getting cream all over his lips.

“Yours, kid. I told you to add more salt.” Daehyun leans over and wipes Youngjae’s lips gruffly, Youngjae letting out a muffled noise. He then rises and heads to the kitchen. “Don’t eat this when you’re outside.”

“Why not?”

Daehyun slants his head back and shakes his fist, resuming his stride. Youngjae furrows his brows in bewilderment. Finally, the gesture snaps into recognition—one imitating a handjob that he occasionally does to mess with Daehyun.

“Screw you, Jung Daehyun,” Youngjae drawls. He follows behind and dumps his plate into the sink, Daehyun washing it up with his.

Outside the time Youngjae spends with Daehyun, his days are empty, drawing out into relentless, dreary minutes. He declined these two weeks’ erotica assignments, a liberty of being a freelancer. Youngjae reads or watches movies as Daehyun assures him this half-month break won’t hurt. After all, the self-employed often forget to give themselves a day off.

Youngjae stops picking at his cuticles while thinking of the wasted hours lounging around—where five thousand words or so could be squeezed out into a better book. He hasn’t gotten rid of his compulsion to think about what lies within and beyond, however. As the people flutter by, he daydreams of teenagers on a road trip and lonely nights at the bar—and what quirks make them alive. Still, Youngjae tries. He tells Daehyun so someone remembers somewhat for him, and doesn’t pen his ideas down.

“What should we do now?” Daehyun asks. They slump onto the bed and Daehyun lays his head in Youngjae’s lap.

“Movies. Monopoly.” Youngjae strokes Daehyun’s cheek. “We can mope around too, if you want.”

“They all start with ‘M’,” Daehyun snickers. The satisfaction in his eyes easily gives away that he adores Youngjae’s ministrations, no matter how unaffectionate they are with their words. Over the months, Youngjae has learnt several things about Daehyun—one of them is that he enjoys human warmth, hence his tendency to touch.

“Mating?” Youngjae flashes a disconcerting smile. Daehyun sends him an unamused look.

“Someone was just saying it’s a crime how big I was, though,” Daehyun hums, chortling when Youngjae flushes.

“ _You_ were the one who wanted to keep going, even though we didn’t have lube.” Youngjae shoves at him and Daehyun yells, rolling over onto the floor. Youngjae erupts with laughter as Daehyun groans by his feet.

“Seriously, you’re just like a kid,” Daehyun says while getting up. “As if you didn’t want to go on too.” He mercilessly tackles Youngjae’s sides and Youngjae screams. He kicks Daehyun and the taller man collapses once more.

Youngjae lightly steps on him. Daehyun chokes and swats his foot away.

“What did you usually do in your free time? Before we met, I mean.”

Youngjae scratches his chin. “Not much. I was usually rushing for deadlines. If I did have free time I’d work on my own stuff.”

“Do you want to do that?” Daehyun gets up, falling into Youngjae’s hold again. “We could go to a café.”

“No, it’s okay. Why would I want to work?” Youngjae thinks aloud. “Anyway, you’ll have nothing to do.”

Daehyun bats his lashes. “In the car the other day, you told me about a tree reincarnating into a girl. I thought it was interesting.”

Youngjae remembers. Daehyun had gotten him a bouquet of daisies and Youngjae had held it to his chest as the words scribbled into his tingling fingers. He slipped up and talked about one of the pieces he didn’t finish—of a Wisteria tree in love with a boy who sat underneath her shade, singing love songs while waiting to meet his soulmate. He never did and passed on due to old age, lying against the tree trunk. The Wisteria tree wilted in grief and reincarnated into a girl with violet flowers growing on her skin. 

“I didn’t.” Youngjae wanted to write of how they would meet again. Now, he doesn’t.

"Remember when I said by June this year, if I don't make it anywhere, I'll call it quits?" Youngjae remarks.

Daehyun shifts to press his nose into Youngjae’s ribs. He finds Youngjae’s hand and interlocks their fingers. “Give yourself another year. You don’t have to give it up wholly even if you stop working.” 

“Another year’s too long. That’ll be eight years in total. I already told you, I want to stop,” Youngjae sighs, growing irritated at Daehyun’s insinuations. “Besides, I’ll go back to writing in two more weeks because of the porn assignments. Either that or I’ll go find a job outside.”

Daehyun exhales into Youngjae’s shirt. “Quit your job and move in with me,” he says after a long while. “The rent’s until this month, right? You won’t have to waste your time writing erotica and you’ll be able to concentrate on your own stories.”

“What?” Youngjae widens his eyes, nudging Daehyun aside so he can lock gazes with him. “I’m not going to leech off you.”

“You’re not leeching off me, Youngjae. You said that the last time,” Daehyun heaves. “We’re dating. It’s okay.”

“And what if we break up?” Youngjae points out. 

Daehyun gets up and stares at him. “Are you not planning for us to stay together?” He asks quietly, just an annoyed tinge of hurt to his otherwise flat voice.

Youngjae bites his lip. “I didn’t mean that. I just mean that if we separate, if one day, you think things aren’t working out-”

“I won’t,” Daehyun sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “If you think things aren’t working out and you want to break up, even then, I’m not going to throw you out.” 

He blinks sharply with his stare absentmindedly trained on the sheets. “Do you think of me as a guy that low?”

“I don’t.” Youngjae parts his lips to protest more but resigns, gaze softening. He shifts on the bed to lie down, staring up into Daehyun’s greyish eyes.

“Sorry. I just don’t want to take advantage of you. That’s all. It’d be like I got into this relationship so I could get a free ride.”

Daehyun nudges Youngjae’s forehead with a small smile. He licks his lips and starts after a while, “We love each other.” The words are corny and Youngjae would laugh on normal occasions, but the sincere effort in Daehyun’s tone stops him.

“What’s mine is yours.” This, he says firmly.

Youngjae snivels. “I’ve got nothing to give, though. You can wear my clothes if you want. Underwear included.”

Daehyun flops over onto Youngjae, making the younger man screech. “Don’t think it’s big enough for me. The front, I mean.” Daehyun intones.

“Your ego is the biggest thing I’ve ever seen,” Youngjae drawls, trying to squirm out from under Daehyun.

“Not what you said last night-”

“Seriously, you bastard. You have the _biggest_ ego in the world. That’s not a good thing, FYI.” He shoves Daehyun off. 

Daehyun guffaws, cheek cutely bulging as his face rests against the bed. “Think about what I said,” he beams, the radiance brimming again in his irises. “I don’t want to rush you. But if you don’t want to do it because you think you’re leeching off me, don’t feel that way.”

“I really do love you. That’s why I want you to stay with me.” He says it like a Spring confession, as if he’s a little afraid of Youngjae knowing and that he’s not sure what Youngjae’s answer would be. It paints Youngjae a bittersweet lavender, a mix of pink from sheepishness and azure from worry.

“Don’t think about breaking up when we’re happy together now,” Daehyun finishes.

Youngjae churns out a soft smile. “Sorry. I’m jinxing us, aren’t I?”

“You are.”

“You know, I think about it because I’m scared to lose you.”

“Sure,” Daehyun snorts.

“I mean it!” Youngjae insists, crossing his arms behind his head. “In these seven years, you’re the best thing that’s happened to me.” He wiggles his brows to make sure the atmosphere isn’t awkward. “I wuv you, Daehyunie,” he blubbers.

“You disgust me.” Despite the words, Daehyun’s eyes brim with an incandescence hard to feign, along with a slight shyness.

“I’ll think about moving, okay?” Youngjae says. “Now’s just not a good time. I don’t want it to feel like I’m taking advantage of you.” 

Once Daehyun parts his lips, Youngjae silences immediately by churning out a random noise, startling the man. Youngjae reaches up to switch off the lights, burying them in darkness. “Not really keen on moving in with someone who keeps talking about dicks, though.”

“Want me to talk about yours?”

“Go ahead. Just a warning, though—if you want to keep this relationship afloat, you better not say anything you’ll regret.” Youngjae cocks an eyebrow as Daehyun parts his mouth broadly, mischievously on the verge of speaking.

Eventually, he purses his lips and slants his head one side. “Baby carrots.”

Youngjae flares his nostrils and wrenches Daehyun by the collar. Daehyun bursts out into an unabashed chortle, “Are healthy! They’re healthy!”

“They are? I’m going to buy a pack from the supermarket tomorrow. You better swallow the whole damn pack.” Youngjae roughly pushes him aside. Daehyun continues laughing as if it’s the only thing he knows how to do.

Youngjae can’t help but melt into a smile.

As their silhouettes draw black over the walls, Youngjae gazes at Daehyun under the guise of April moonlight. Reminisces of many months ago drizzle onto his fingertips like an unwound spool of film tape. From the first time Daehyun stepped into his home to how the walls now remember his shadows, Youngjae is glad he decided to give his coffee to a random busker on that Friday night. 

Really, really glad.

 

\--

 

Youngjae thinks of thread, and a world of how they hold each person together. Every sincere relationship ties a visible but intangible string around the person, thickness telling of how strong the relations are. They create avid first impressions. Since every string represents love and care, the more strings attached, the more popular and well-liked a person is. It also brings about a new way of sieving out the ostracised, known as the unloved.

Thus, the strings come to signify a source of life in a world of billions. They tell of the sadness one would garner if they were to go, strings unravelling into a mess.

Youngjae’s forty-two-year-old protagonist is part of the unloved. It’s good for him—with just a few strings, the suicidal don’t have to worry about broken hearts or regrets they will have about the people they leave behind. As he teeters on the edge of a roof, a string threads around his wrist in the form of a hand. Pull, and he tumbles back into a wide-eyed eight year old. 

Youngjae shakes away the thoughts of camaraderie between two unlikely friends and the endless possibilities. He taps incessantly on his phone, trying to win at a game. He prefers adventure games with a storyline rather than these repetitive ones, but it’s a way to pass the time other than thinking about what he wants to do with his life. 

Youngjae has considered the jobs he could get: cashier, waiter, warehouse packer—he saw these openings in the newspapers yesterday. He wants to move in with Daehyun, but getting a job is a must so he at least gives a share to household expenses. Daehyun is kind, thus he probably offered so much seeing Youngjae in such a plight. Daehyun’s vice is that he never considers the consequences on himself.

The noise of footsteps halt outside the door. As Youngjae hears the jangle of keys, he bounces up and opens the door quicker.

Daehyun stares at him with large eyes, pulling back slightly. “Youngjae- you came over?”

“Yeah, I texted you.” Before Youngjae finishes his sentence, Daehyun melts into a smile, his happiness stark despite the small quirk of his lips. 

He checks his phone and clicks his tongue. “Must have missed it.” He touches Youngjae’s lower back as he enters, putting his briefcase on the table.

“Let’s order dinner home.” Daehyun furrows his brows and sniffs. “Wait, are you cooking something?”

“Surprise! I made tofu stew for you,” Youngjae cajoles, waving his hands enthusiastically.

“Really?” Daehyun blurts, face lighting up with an endearing radiance. He shuffles quickly to the kitchen and peeks into the pot, grinning from ear to ear. “Wow, it smells really good.” 

“Yeah, but I don’t know if it’ll taste good. Here’s hoping we don’t get food poisoning.” Youngjae muffles a yelp when Daehyun nudges his forehead.

Daehyun scoops up some and slurps at the ladle, smacking his lips. “Mm, it’s good. You cooked it well.” He turns to Youngjae with a misty look etched into his eyes, smiling softly.

“Thanks, kid.” He leans forward and after a brief pause, seals their lips. Youngjae nudges him away.

“Ah, spicy,” he chides, rubbing at his now kimchi-stained lips. Daehyun erupts with laughter.

Dinner is a warm affair of TV commercials and Daehyun’s snippets of his day. Daehyun never uses the names of his colleagues nor does he talk much about his work, citing that it’s too boring to recount. Only when Youngjae presses does he mention a few annoyances at the office, complaining more about traffic.

He kisses Youngjae after dinner, pressing him against the wall in the corridor. Later, they wind up at the place where they first met—by the curb five minutes away from the convenience store. 

It’s Friday, just like then, but Youngjae has no coffee can to offer. Still, he sits by Daehyun’s side as Daehyun plays his guitar with his mask on. Youngjae bites back a bubbly laugh at the sight.

The songs are the same, along with new ones Youngjae didn’t hear in the ten minutes he lingered on that Friday. Neon trickles over their faces as Youngjae takes in the scent of coming summer, smiling at passers-by who drop a few coins or notes.

Daehyun tugs down his mask after _Eyes Closed_ , making Youngjae turn his head. “That’s fast.” He makes a move to get up but Daehyun stops him.

“I’m still going to play,” Daehyun remarks. “Two more songs.”

Youngjae tilts his head, pointing to his mask. “Keep your mask on, then. I thought you wanted to hide from your colleagues.”

“Do you have to say it like that?” Daehyun snorts in amusement. “I wear the mask so no one from my company recognises me.”

“Basically, what I said.”

“I’m not hiding from them. I’d get into trouble if they see me, their employee, trying to make cash on the side of the street.”

“Okay, so you are not hiding from them, but you are hiding from them,” Youngjae clarifies with a fervent nod. He chortles when Daehyun drops his head in defeat.

“Anyway, why’d you take it off? Is it hot?”

Daehyun smiles. He reaches over and ruffles Youngjae’s hair wordlessly.

The notes that spill from Daehyun’s fingers are familiar despite Youngjae having heard them only once. Bitter, parched, melancholic—they grapple for some semblance of understanding in the air. Youngjae turns to look at Daehyun as he begins singing.

His words are a dead violet, like bruises. Youngjae forgets some verses even though he wrote them in _How We Breathe_ , the first book he lent to Daehyun as he wanted to quit smoking. The shreds of some chapters come back to him as the hoarse words litter Daehyun’s lips, telling of a husband who abandoned his wife via a publicly-accepted way of suicide. The cigarettes took him and his wife sixteen years later, but in a wheeze of carbon monoxide.

It’s a shame Daehyun didn’t become a singer. He sings like the words are his own, bleeding out the emotions that scream of captivity. Youngjae thinks back to when he first heard this. He’d fallen in love with Daehyun by then, but didn’t understand what it meant to love a man romantically. It’s nostalgic.

Youngjae doesn’t recognise the next song, but he does recall some of the words. The tune is mellow and unassuming, rosier than the one written based on _How We Breathe_. The lyrics go together well despite being taken from several of Youngjae’s stories, twined together by a buoyant hope.

Where do all the words he’s written go? To a box underneath the table, and maybe some of it to another of Daehyun’s compositions. It’s okay to leave things unread, Youngjae has thought many times, but it really means the world when someone loves the things you put your heart into.

Daehyun’s last word wanes into a light breath, the drawn-in strangers dispersing with drops of crumpled bills. He meets Youngjae’s watery eyes and absent smile, only able to brush the man’s hair back with the passing throngs.

“Sorry,” he breathes.

Youngjae’s lips quirk. “Why are you sorry?” Youngjae leans back and remarks lightheartedly, “It sounds really good. The melody, I mean.” He gazes back into Daehyun’s eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’ll have to pay me for copyright infringement, though,” Youngjae brings up. Daehyun rolls his eyes and lets out a long groan.

“I’m a fan. Can’t you be nicer to me?”

“Plagiarism is plagiarism.” Youngjae looks up at the night sky, tungsten from the blotching the darkness of the sky. He churns out a wistful smile that makes his cheeks fluff. 

Missing how lovelorn Daehyun looks, Youngjae tugs his jacket closer. “It’s cold.” It’s not, but Youngjae wants to kiss Daehyun, so he says it anyway.

“Let’s go home.”

 

\--

 

Daehyun’s birthday passes to the ring of crushed beer cans. He mourns being thirty-one years old with his guitar left on the floor and his drunken self slung over Youngjae’s body. Together, they curse the cruelty of middle age. Youngjae giggles uncontrollably after four gulps of stinging alcohol, to which Daehyun calls him an embarrassing mess.

They laugh about how Daehyun couldn’t tell he liked Youngjae, even when he felt his heart race upon seeing him. Daehyun protests heartily that he’d thought he was just ‘intensely’ into being friends with Youngjae. Youngjae brings up the time Daehyun wanted them to hitch one-night stands at the bar. Together, they wonder if the _them_ from then would ever expect that this is how things would end up.

Daehyun is surprisingly romantic when he’s drunk. He talks about the colours of Youngjae and admires the pink he leaves on Youngjae. Peach, red, beige, snow—Daehyun descends, kissing flesh and bones. His nose brushes against Youngjae’s hipbone and as Daehyun takes Youngjae into his mouth, Youngjae bites his lips. He grips Daehyun’s hair and bucks his hips.

Daehyun’s eyes are murky like the cloudy days they stay home to watch DVDs. Daehyun wipes the white from his mouth and carefully parts Youngjae’s legs. The scent of cherry streaks down his fingers and fills Youngjae deep. Youngjae holds his breath when Daehyun slips in.

No matter how much Youngjae tries, he can’t stop himself from waxing poetic. It’s a bad habit of his heart that can’t erase the glee of teenage years, writing about cringeworthy characters and abrupt romances. Push, and Youngjae grips Daehyun’s shoulder tighter, wheezes thin. Pull, and Youngjae exhales, already missing the feeling of fullness. It’s hard to deny the inspiration when he’s so intimately entwined with Daehyun.

Daehyun thrusts again and wipes away the tears welled up in Youngjae’s eyes, soothing him with soft words. He looks lovesick, Youngjae thinks, but it can’t be because infatuation can’t last that long. 

The way Daehyun moans makes Youngjae giddy. His kisses whir Youngjae through a dozen places—a cold night in bustling Sydney, rainy Tuesday afternoons at the bus-stop, against a lush field where they can see the stars. The old linens melt into a boundless canopy and Youngjae kisses Daehyun harder.

They’re a bland story of an office worker and a failed writer, but that’s okay. Their characters are painfully boring in the tides of humdrum reality, and they can only offer the aimless, unskippable years as chapters. Still, this is who they are, raw and unfiltered.

Even if their book has no one turning the pages, Youngjae still thinks it’s the loveliest thing he’s ever read. 

He never wants to put it down.

 

\--

 

In the midst of writing a coming-of-age prose, Youngjae receives a message from Daehyun. There’s a photo attached to it. It’s an excerpt of one of Youngjae’s old works, handwritten in a blatantly juvenile style.

Youngjae’s eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. _What the hell? I didn’t let you read that!_

_You said I could read your books. Does your first one not count?_ Daehyun replies.

_You asshole._ Youngjae types back with a disgruntled pout. _Whatever, you’re the one who will suffer._

_Alien monkeys sound interesting, though. Hey, I’ve got coupons to this sundae shop nearby. They were giving them out at the bus-stop. Let’s go together._

Grinning, Youngjae returns. _Okay. By the way, I’m going to make fried rice for you tonight. Anticipate it!_

Daehyun answers quickly. _Am anticipating intensely. Will continue to anticipate intensely for the next eight hours._

Youngjae laughs.

 

* * *

thanks for reading! i really appreciate all the feedback you guys have taken the effort to leave, it really warms my heart and i'm very grateful for it TvT 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double update! chapter 8 and 9! thank you so much for the comments!! ;v; i'm really so touched by all the feedback left. i'll reply them tonight, thank you so much again

 

**[open-ended](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuC2sc-1CMU&list=PLflKpEjRZwlfbseXgO4AlUJqjzOnGqPKe) **

_Daehyun/Youngjae_

 

 

The July monsoon season hits hard, rainfall plaguing the afternoons with an uncomfortable humidity. Daehyun always picks him up from his place when it’s raining, but Youngjae caught some of the drizzle in his palm when he reached out to touch the rain.

Youngjae lies bundled up in the blankets, fingers clacking over the keyboard as he finishes up his erotica assignment. This week’s prompt is of a bartender and an older working woman having sex on the counter. Youngjae thinks the premise minus the crude sex might do well as a drama, with perhaps a disillusioned secretary and the bartender she meets on the night her fiancé calls it quits. Throw in the dashing boss and there’ll be a perfect love triangle for the country to fawn over.

Daehyun sits at his desk, clad in a stretched white singlet and striped boxers, much like a father of two. Youngjae made fun of him when he changed out, remarking that middle age does its magic quickly.

The lady in the tutorial video recites another line of instruction, folding and gluing paper on the screen. Daehyun watches with earnest eyes, pausing the video to follow along.

It’s cute. “You really don’t have to do this, you know,” Youngjae sighs, crawling to the edge of the bed and plopping himself on his stomach.

Daehyun turns around. “It’s fun.” He makes a face when he smears glue over his hand. The text block is thin and blank, meant to be a trial run before they make the actual book.

Colourful patterns are strewn over the table along with other stationery. By Daehyun’s laptop sits a spool of thread and flattened A5-sized papers. Youngjae takes one and sits on the floor, helping to thread it.

“Hey, be careful with that. Mess up one and you’ll have to restart the whole thing.” Daehyun hands the laptop over, demonstrating the steps to Youngjae in any case.

“Will an actual book even hold together?” Youngjae asks. “I mean, my stuff has around 250 pages.”

“It should, according to the video.” He reaches over to pat Youngjae’s head. “Worry about what book you want to print.”

“It’s difficult. You’ll have to coordinate the pages if you print it out using a normal printer,” Youngjae heaves. The coffee he made for Daehyun sits cold on the table.

“It’s fine. If she can do it,” Daehyun points to the woman in the video, “I can.”

“Well, just don’t stress yourself out over it. You’ve got work tomorrow.”

Youngjae gets up to peck Daehyun on the cheek, leaving behind a few pages done. “I’m going to the kitchen. Want anything?”

Daehyun rubs his neck. “Another kiss,” he cornily rasps, now more accustomed to spouting such cringeworthy lines from his unfiltered heart.

Youngjae sends him a look and leans down to grasp Daehyun’s face, kissing deep. He leaves Daehyun breathless.

“Anything else?”

“Uh, do you want to-”

“No, I’m going to make dinner. Tsukemen,” Youngjae beams, excited by his own suggestion. “After dinner.”

Daehyun grimaces. “I think I wouldn’t have much appetite after how your last dish turned out.”

“Then starve.”

Summer rain patters against the glass window. Daehyun purses his lips. “Wait, by starve, do you mean food hunger or…”

“Both, you asshole.” Youngjae conks Daehyun’s head and strides out, leaving Daehyun to laugh by himself.

 

\--

 

The city lights wither in Youngjae’s periphery, tungsten lights from the lampposts reflecting in the puddles. He keeps to the side of the streets as the furious throng of office workers flush past him. Tip, tap, click, clack. Youngjae feels misplaced in the synchronised steps, as though everyone else is part of a pattern. Part of a common dream.

The overpopulated business district bustles with all the life the tired nine-to-five crowd can have, rushing to get home in the midst of the peak hour. It’s scary how fast they walk. Youngjae strides in the opposite direction towards Daehyun’s company, phone pressed to his ear.

After a few rings, Daehyun eventually picks up. “Hey, Youngjae,” his voice is lowered against the sound of shuffling papers. “Sorry, can you give me ten minutes more? I’m leaving now.”

“Take your time. Do you want to meet outside your workplace? I’m walking there right now.”

“No, no, that’s alright,” Daehyun breathes. “Wait for me at the station.”

“I’m pretty much just a minute away from your office.”

“I told you to meet me at the station,” Daehyun chides gently. “Are you near The Cake Room?”

A breeze bristles the hair on Youngjae’s neck and he shivers. “Just passed it a while back.”

“Go wait for me there, kid,” Daehyun instructs. “Don’t wander around.”

“But I want to see how your office looks like,” Youngjae complains, though he obediently swivels on his feet and walks back to the bakery.

“It’s just like any other company. I’ll see you in a few, alright?” Daehyun swiftly bids Youngjae goodbye. The younger man leans by a pillar outside the store, peering at the numerous heart cookies on display. He debates on whether to buy a packet for Daehyun but winces at the price. Youngjae thumbs out his wallet and sighs at the few bills left.

In a minute or so, Daehyun emerges, jogging over to Youngjae. In the most cliched of phrasings, Youngjae’s heart skips a beat at how Daehyun’s dressed. He dons his usual suit but with a blazer on top like a cut-out from the Korean dramas he used to binge watch in college. It’s funny, because he’s probably the only one who would be so infatuated with such a simple look in this crowd.

Before Youngjae can brashly compliment him, Daehyun takes his wrist and tugs him along. “Hey,” he greets with a sincerely radiant grin, some haste in his movements. “Why’d you walk all the way out here?”

“It’s not that far from the station.” Youngjae squeezes through the crowds and finally catches up to Daehyun’s side.

“Trying to get some exercise, huh?” Daehyun teases, eyes hintingly flickering to Youngjae’s stomach. Youngjae hopes the happiness in Daehyun’s eyes is because of him.

“You know, I was thinking of saying you looked hot, but it looks like I won’t be saying that anytime soon.”

Daehyun laughs. “But you just said it.”

“People change their minds,” Youngjae says matter-of-factly. Daehyun doesn’t let go of his wrist as they brisk walk into the subway station. He leads them all the way to the end, citing that there’ll be fewer people in the end cabins.

“I should have driven to work today. Now, we have to squeeze with the peak hour crowds,” Daehyun laments. “Tell me earlier if you want to go out.”

“Mm. You should drive to work every day. Stop wasting your time just to read my stuff.”

“It makes me enjoy going to work, though.”

Youngjae curls his fingers. “You don’t like going to work?” He asks instead.

“Nobody likes going to work.” Daehyun finally lets go of Youngjae’s wrist as a person queues behind them. The train barrels into the station and they manage to squeeze in, both pressed against each other. They fall into the customary silence of the crowd though they stare at one another.

“The restaurant’s good,” Daehyun speaks lowly while the train rattles. “I went there for one week straight once.”

“I’ve never heard of it before,” Youngjae whispers back. “How’d you find the place?”

“Friends introduced it to me.”

“Friends? Imaginary or real?”

Daehyun narrows his eyes though his lips curl in amusement. “You’re really nice, you know that, Youngjae?”

“You’re welcome. Are they your colleagues or your college friends?”

“Colleagues.”

“Do you still go there to eat with them?”

Daehyun shakes his head. He peers around and remarks, “It’s more crowded than usual. Probably because of the night market.”

“Night market?”

“Yeah. It’s 10 minutes away from the restaurant. Want to go there?”

“If you’re not tired. I haven’t been to one in a while,” Youngjae muses. “I love the Takoyaki stores.”

“Yeah. They sell them pretty cheap.”

“I went to one where the balls were as big as my fist.”

“Your hands are small, though,” Daehyun comments.

“But they’re big for Takoyaki balls.” Youngjae stops short as his stomach grumbles.

“Ah. The baby’s hungry again.” Daehyun sneaks a hand up to pat Youngjae’s stomach, making him jerk back into a commuter. Youngjae spins around and apologises profusely. He glares at Daehyun who has to bite back his laughter.

“Anyway, squid or ham?”

“Squid.”

Youngjae snivels. “Boo.”

The walk to the restaurant takes 5 minutes from the station. The restaurant is modest yet bustling with people, atmosphere energetic and buoyant. They skim through the menu and Youngjae heeds Daehyun’s recommendation, getting the same dish as him.

“So, how was work?” Youngjae slurps at his drink.

“The usual. What about you?” Daehyun gives his customary response, looking around. “You wanted to finish the story today.  _Cirque_.”

“I didn’t manage to,” Youngjae sighs, ruffling his hair. “Halfway my genius brain thought it a good idea to make it even more complex.”

 “I want to know how your day went,” Youngjae continues. “What did you do today?”

“My job. I crunched numbers and filed papers,” Daehyun chuckles. He glances around for the second time, as if searching for someone. Youngjae curiously mimics him.

“Are you looking for somebody?”

“No, just looking around.” Daehyun crosses his arms over the table. “What’s the storyline like now?”

“So, did everything go okay?” Youngjae asks instead of replying. It’s been a while since he noticed Daehyun doesn’t speak of his work, only giving short answers for the sake of responding.

“Yeah.” Daehyun blinks. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wanted to know. Yesterday, you seemed kind of stressed out.”

“It’s nothing. Just did some calculations wrongly so I had to redo them again,” Daehyun dismisses. He reaches over to ruffle Youngjae’s hair. “Don’t worry about me, kid.”

“How’s the novel like now?” He repeats his question.

Youngjae shrugs, truthfully a little disheartened at Daehyun’s reply. Perhaps it’s asking for too much to ask Daehyun to confide in him about his work matters, especially when Youngjae has no experience in his field. As long as Daehyun’s fine, it should be okay.

“I wanted to expand more on Yeonjoo’s brother, but I don’t know if I’ll be biting off more than I can chew.” Youngjae props his face up against his hand restlessly.

Daehyun chuckles. “You always speak of your characters like they’re your kids.”

“Yeah, my kids that get killed off for plot development.” It’s easier than before to talk to Daehyun about his pieces without the worry of being self-centred or arrogant, though he still gets nervous and embarrassed at Daehyun’s feedback. He limits talk about his stories in any case, finding it uncomfortable to speak about his work so animatedly while Daehyun pays for its consequences.

After some time, their orders arrive, Daehyun digging in and excitedly waiting for Youngjae’s reaction. He melts into a stellar grin when Youngjae hums in delight, stuffing more noodles into his mouth.

“It’s good, isn’t it?”

“Mm. It tastes like heaven,” Youngjae sighs in contentment.

“The soup is good here too. It’s great for winter.”

Their legs brush under the table. Daehyun clips a piece of his chicken and plops it into Youngjae’s bowl. “Eat more.”

“So you can make fun of my flabs, right?”

He holds out a fishcake to Daehyun, watching the man glance around before swiftly eating it. Daehyun chuckles, “You’re trying to make me flabby too, huh?”

“Yeah. So you won’t be able to run away.”

After an hour of talking about nothing yet everything, a consequence of spending too many days together (Daehyun never seems to mind), they roam around the night market. Daehyun stops every once in a while to watch a few buskers, falling into the entranced crowd at the raspy voices. Their hands brush, and Youngjae squeezes Daehyun’s hand for a fleeting second.

He pretends to have done nothing when Daehyun looks over. Daehyun purposely brushes his hand over Youngjae’s palm, grasping on for a longer while than Youngjae did.

“I wonder if this is how I look when I’m busking,” Daehyun mulls lightly.

“It is, besides the mask,” Youngjae replies. “Hey, have you ever thought about playing at a café? Like a casual gig. I know some cafés have these small, open concerts.”

“I’d rather not. Those would make me nervous.” Daehyun smiles. “Kind of weird, right? Busking is even more public than that.”

“Yeah,” Youngjae chortles. “Why’d you prefer sitting on the streets than in a warm café?”

“It’s the stage,” Daehyun muses. “When they’re looking up at you, expecting something from you, it gets nerve-wracking since you can disappoint.”

Youngjae protests, “But you’re good.”

“ _‘Good’_  like every other busker you find on the streets.” Their hands brush again and Daehyun edges closer.

“It’s warm,” he murmurs, gazing out at the expanse of bruised maroon. It reminds Youngjae of the moment between dawn and dusk.

They bask in the silence weaved together by afterthoughts, late night drizzling upon their shoulders. The faces breeze past as their fingers continue to graze one another. A couple of kids huddle in a corner with paper lanterns bought from the night market, chattering vibrantly.

Youngjae keeps a lookout for advertisements of job placements on the passing stores. One catches his eye, asking for a part-time cashier. He smiles dismissively when Daehyun follows his gaze in intrigue.

“I wonder what would happen if I’d gotten a job in an office. Your office, maybe, and we met.” Youngjae tilts his head in thought as they amble. “Do you think this would have happened?”

“What would have happened?” It feels like Daehyun knows what Youngjae’s referring to, but he probes for it to be named.

Youngjae purses his lips. “Us.”

“Us dating?” Daehyun sighs, decisively putting a name to it in a low and quiet voice. He bats his lashes slowly. “I really hope so.”

It doesn’t answer the question, but it does make Youngjae’s heart flutter. Contrarily, he hopes Daehyun finds someone else more fitting—capable, loving, able to hold Daehyun’s hand on the streets and easily receive his mother’s blessings. Someone who has her life more together than him.

Nevertheless, Youngjae keeps his thoughts to himself, knowing Daehyun would take it the wrong way. Instead, he elbows Daehyun and jokes, “Are the girls in your office really that bad?”

Daehyun laughs, wringing an arm around Youngjae’s shoulders. They look like the perfect pair of friends, living their late twenties with gusto. The world remains oblivious to their soft gazes.

“They aren’t. They’re all pretty good catches, honestly.”

Youngjae’s eyes glimmer. “Introduce them to me, then.”

Daehyun tugs him closer, making Youngjae choke.

“You’re really asking for it, kid.”

 

\--

 

Friday nights are now saved for eating together at Daehyun’s place. Youngjae cooks dinner and opens the door to Daehyun and his always-enamoured smile, as if he’s living the life he always wished he would in his thirties. Youngjae doesn’t have long tresses or curves down his torso, but the stark differences don’t seem to matter to Daehyun. They don’t talk about children, even though Daehyun watches the parents and children playing in the nearby park.

"Yeah, you're out of milk," Youngjae remarks as he searches the fridge. "You're running out of butter too."

"You're the one drinking the milk," Daehyun laughs over the phone, some shuffling resounding from his side. He's at the supermarket, having dropped by there after work before heading back home.

"Please buy it for me," Youngjae bubbles in a cutesy voice, to which Daehyun feigns vomiting. Youngjae smiles in satisfaction and tugs out the clean pail of water from the bathroom. He clips his phone between his shoulder and his ear.

"Do you want anything else?"

"No, it's alright." Youngjae resumes mopping the floor, wiping away the sweat on his forehead. "Come back quickly or your dinner will get cold."

"Okay. I'll buy some chocolates up to share."

Youngjae bids Daehyun goodbye and puts away his phone. He roams to Daehyun's bedroom, mopping diligently. He makes a face at the realisation that he takes care of Daehyun’s home better than his own. Then again, Daehyun also cleaned Youngjae’s rented apartment, nagging him to vacuum his floor more often.

As he steps over to Daehyun’s desk, he notices the sticky note stuck to the surface.  _Sell dresser._

Youngjae turns back to examine the vanity dresser in the corner. With a prim white design and polished knobs, it wouldn’t be difficult to sell.

The first time Youngjae had seen it, he had thought it was rather out-of-place for a bachelor living on his own. The grime on it told Youngjae it wasn’t used, soot blackening Youngjae’s thumb pad.

Youngjae gets a tablecloth and wipes away the dust layering the top. He truthfully forgot about it, having been so accustomed to it taking up the space in the corner.

The door knob rattles and Youngjae hears Daehyun enter, plastic crackling as Daehyun sets down the groceries. “Youngjae,” he calls out.

“I’m here!” Youngjae tugs out a drawer and snivels at the billow of dust. For a person rather uptight about hygiene, Daehyun sure didn’t bother cleaning this dresser.

Daehyun appears in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“Uh, cleaning. What else?” Youngjae pats the table top. “You want to sell this?”

Daehyun knits his brows together. “How’d you know?”

“I saw your note. How much did you buy this for?” Youngjae wipes the perspiration off his forehead.

“I forgot.” Daehyun enters the room, tossing off his windbreaker.

“Why’d you even buy it? Need a place to do your make-up?” Youngjae chuckles, patting his cheeks teasingly.

Daehyun churns out a terse laugh. “Let’s eat dinner. I’m starving.” He pulls Youngjae up from the floor. “Don’t clean it anymore. I’ll do it myself.”

“I’m almost done-”

“Hungry,” Daehyun groans, dragging Youngjae towards the kitchen. He unpacks the groceries and hands Youngjae a bag of chocolates. “Here, your favourite.”

“Thanks,” Youngjae chirps. He pries it open and pops one into his mouth.

“Kid, you cooked curry? I was craving it this afternoon.” Daehyun scoops out some rice, eyes glimmering at the sight. It’s cute.

“You should have dropped a memo. Lucky for you, I’m psychic.” Youngjae leans against the counter, pursing his lips in thought. “When you want to move the dresser out, tell me. Don’t do it by yourself or you’ll hurt your back.”

“Oh, this tastes great.” Daehyun gorges down several bites at once, licking his lips. He messes up Youngjae’s hair and gets a plate of rice for Youngjae as well.

Youngjae grins. “I’ll be Gordon Ramsay in no time.”

“You sure about that? You burnt the rice yesterday.” Daehyun snickers. He scoots closer to Youngjae as they eat in the kitchen, fragrance wafting out the window.

“When I was really young, my mother used to cook curry for me whenever I was sad.” Nostalgia clouds Daehyun’s murky irises. “Eating curry makes me feel like my knees are scraped now,” he chortles.

“That’s cute. Did you get hurt a lot?”

“Yeah. My parents used to call me a bat because I ran around like I didn’t have any eyes. I’d trip and fall over everything.”

Youngjae bursts out into a guffaw. “Was that why you fell that time in the supermarket? Over that basket?”

Daehyun rolls his eyes. “Shut up. You were such an asshole, laughing at me instead of helping me out,” he drawls with an amused smile.

Youngjae nearly doubles over at the memory, just like last time. “I helped!” Youngjae protests lightheartedly.

“Sure took your time while I was on the ground, kid.”

“It was because I couldn’t see!” Youngjae chortles. “The tears were blocking my vision. I was as blind as a bat. Didn’t want to trip too.” He grins remorselessly when Daehyun squints at him.

“You were an asshole then and you’re still an asshole now.” Daehyun lightly nudges his head.

“You know, I was really embarrassed,” he chuckles. “Usually I’d get over it pretty quickly but well, I guess it’s because you were there. I went back home and seriously felt like dying inside.”

Youngjae muffles another laugh. “Wow, seriously?”

“Yeah. I kept telling myself you were my friend so it didn’t matter but it still got to me. That’s why I avoided going with you to supermarkets so you wouldn’t remember it.”

“Good to know. I’m going to bring it with me to my grave.”

“Karma, kid. Don’t forget when you opened that toilet door, thinking it lead to the staircase. That poor girl,” Daehyun snickers as Youngjae flares a soft crimson. “You even walked in!”

“She didn’t lock it!” Youngjae reasons, burying his face into his hands. “You’re making me cringe, stop.”

“Bet you were just desperate,” Daehyun laughs raucously. The sound instinctively has Youngjae grinning even though the joke is unfortunately at his expense.

“Yeah, because women peeing really turn me on,” Youngjae snorts.

“I don’t know, you could have been hoping it was a man.”

“Screw off. Give me back the food I cooked,” Youngjae demands as Daehyun gulps down his last portion, scraping up the morsels left.

“You want me to puke it up?” Daehyun’s lips quirk, earning an unamused look from Youngjae. Daehyun proudly hums, “I’m on a roll today.”

Youngjae narrows his eyes at Daehyun, much to Daehyun’s entertainment. “ _Anyway_ , how was your day?”

Daehyun gets a second helping. “It was okay. Traffic was kind of bad on the highway because a tree fell. Blocked up two lanes.”

“It’s dangerous to drive with how the weather’s like nowadays. It rains so hard I can barely see anything through the windows,” Youngjae comments. “Was work okay?”

“Mm. And yeah, it gets pretty hard to change lanes. Lots of accidents recently,” Daehyun heaves. His phone rings and he checks the caller, putting away his plate.

“Your colleague?”

“Yeah. Be right back,” Daehyun says. He strides into the bedroom and shuts the door behind him even though it’s quiet in the kitchen.

Youngjae waits. Soon, Daehyun emerges, tucking his phone into his pocket with an annoyed look.

“Everything alright?” Youngjae washes up their plates.

“Yeah.” Daehyun kisses Youngjae briefly, squeezing his side. “Sorry. I have to head back to my office.”

“What happened?”

“Just some work stuff,” Daehyun remarks as he throws on his jacket. He swiftly grabs his car keys and pats Youngjae’s hair gently. “I’ll be back soon, kid.”

Youngjae watches as the front door clicks shut. His shoulders fall but he reminds himself that even if he has a place in Daehyun’s work affairs, a man as inexperienced as him would understand nothing. Daehyun works with numbers and tax returns; Youngjae barely even has a grasp on his own forte, words. Perhaps that’s the reason Daehyun barely shares anything about work.

Youngjae heaves. He goes back to wipe the vanity dresser.

 

\--

 

That night, Youngjae simmers into a sweet breath of inspiration and coffee-stained lips. His fingers run over the keyboard with a fervor that he always regrets in the morning when the words amount to nothing. It’s dark in his apartment and the only light drips from his laptop screen.

Youngjae writes about the history of a person and how it eternally chases after them, suffusing within their shadows. The world values consistency and shuns change. It’s human instinct to be wary which is why impressions stick like dried glue—and that leaves little space to start on a blank slate.

A person carries his mistakes with him like a name. People—the venomous crowds that think less in numbers—censure and criticize, ripping apart whatever’s wrong. And they never forget, which is why they say the past defines a person.

Leaving an abusive relationship with a six-year-old son, she struggles to find a place within the stigma. A failed marriage means there must be something wrong, so her flaws are tripled in size when they manifest.  _I knew it,_ the men drawl when she turns them down too many times in the bedroom. _I told you so,_ the neighbours gossip after she chides her child too harshly.  _This must have been why,_ her parents scoff once she snaps at them to leave her alone for today.

Under a magnifying glass the clothes of her history are burnt into her skin. She can’t breathe. The eyes in the floors keep staring and the ears in the walls keep listening. The divorce papers are a remnant that can be hidden but her son—living, breathing, speaking—cannot be kept in the dark. He reminds not just others of what she is, but she herself of the beatings and her mistake.

She wants to hate him, but the present tells her she is a mother, first and foremost. So, she learns to love unconditionally despite the scathing scrutiny.

Daehyun comes over in the afternoon and finds Youngjae curled up on the floor, laptop by his side. He doesn’t wake Youngjae up. Instead, he lies beside Youngjae and takes photos of his drool puddle.

They miss their movie date but it’s better this way, Youngjae thinks. They watch the movie on Youngjae’s laptop with their hands freely interlocked over the sheets.

Youngjae kisses Daehyun during the credits scene.

 

\--

 

The day after, Youngjae notices the empty space in Daehyun’s bedroom. He tilts his head in confusion.

“Where’s the dresser?”

Daehyun glances at him from the bed, occupied with a game on his phone. “Oh, I threw it out.”

“What? Why?” Youngjae questions. “I thought you wanted to sell it.”

Daehyun shrugs. “It’s a hassle.”

“I cleaned it for you so you could sell it, and you throw it away,” Youngjae pouts, hanging up his jacket behind the door.

“Sorry.” Daehyun lugs Youngjae down onto the mattress with him and grins. “Look, I’m at level fifteen.”

“Congratulations,” Youngjae drawls. He cheekily snatches the phone and puts it at the end of the bed. Daehyun pinches him with an amused snort and crawls away to take his phone.

“Why’d you suddenly change your mind?” Youngjae settles under the sheets.

“About what?”

“The dresser.”

Daehyun returns to his place. “Like I said, it’s a hassle.”

“You could have earned good money from it,” he remarks. “That thing looked as good as new.”

Daehyun doesn’t reply. Youngjae scrolls absentmindedly through Junhong’s new messages. “I hope it wasn’t heavy to move out. You’ve been having back pains lately.”

Daehyun turns to frown at him. “Why do you keep talking about the dresser?”

“What do you mean?” Youngjae blinks, gazing up in bewilderment.

“You keep bringing it up,” Daehyun intones with a tinge of annoyance underlying his words. “The day before yesterday, too.”

“I’m not. I was just asking about it.” Youngjae furrows his brows.

“Well, I threw it out already so there’s no point talking about it,” Daehyun states firmly.

Youngjae stares at Daehyun for a moment. He eventually mumbles, “Sorry.”

They fall into a quietness as Youngjae slinks further under the blanket, typing a reply to Junhong. He soon feels fingers in his hair.

“Sorry. It was distracting me from my game,” Daehyun breathes lowly, guilt permeating his irises.

“You weren’t even playing it then,” Youngjae points out. He nonetheless smiles and pokes Daehyun’s forehead. “Loser. Your game doesn’t even need concentration. All you do is spam buttons.”

“I like to call it  _sophisticated button mashing,_ Youngjae.”

Daehyun grins once Youngjae rolls his eyes back.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double update! chapter 8 and 9

 

**[open-ended](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuC2sc-1CMU&list=PLflKpEjRZwlfbseXgO4AlUJqjzOnGqPKe) **

_Daehyun/Youngjae_

 

 

August brings forth an intolerably muggy air, downpours simmering into a preview of a lighter autumn. Their shoes are never spared and they often argue over whether sneakers or slippers are better in this weather. Daehyun insists that he’d rather not slosh through mud puddles in flip flops and risk twisting his ankle. Youngjae complains that it’s better than trudging around in wet, grimy socks—and getting a fungal infection.

It’s Sunday. Caught in the rain, they take shelter at a convenience store.

Pitter, patter, pitter, patter. Daehyun drums out a rhythm on the table as their coffee is left to cool. As Youngjae watches rainwater flush down the drains, inspiration hits him. He tugs out his small notebook and jots it down.

Daehyun peers over. “Is it a new one?”

Youngjae shakes his head. “The one about the divorcee and her son.”

Daehyun crosses his arms over the table and rests his head in his makeshift pillow. “I notice some of your newer stories are about children and adults together.”

Youngjae perks up. “Oh shit, you’re right,” he frets.

“Why? Is that a bad thing?”

“Yeah. It means I’m running out of material,” Youngjae broods. “It’s like coming up with a few versions of the same ideas.”

“If they’re all good, then they should be written.”

“People would say you lack originality if you did that. And indecisiveness.” Youngjae slurps at his coffee, two extra sugar packets dunked in.

“Harsh,” Daehyun winces.

“Yeah, but it’s what happens. I had this favourite author when I was in my teens who wrote on a dystopian underground world with monsters roaming the surface. She came out with another dystopian novel about monsters too and critics said she was trying to squeeze money out of her fans.” He pouts. “I really liked her second novel, though. It was different enough and good.”

“That’s a waste. I get where the critics are coming from but still, it’s a waste to ditch a good idea because it has some similarities with old ideas.”

“Mm, that’s true.” Youngjae similarly rests his head in his arms, facing Daehyun. He stifles a laugh when Daehyun gets startled by the proximity.

“When do you think the rain will stop?”

“Fifteen minutes?” Daehyun purses his lips. “What should we do after this? The movies screening now look pretty dull.”

“Water park?”

“So we can get caught in the rain, right?” Daehyun drawls, making Youngjae giggle.

“Fine, we’ll save it for next time. Let’s have a picnic.”

Daehyun squints at him. Youngjae unapologetically suggests, “Beach? I mean, playing in the high tides seems fun.”

“You’re banned from suggesting ideas.” Daehyun snickers when Youngjae lets out an offended gasp.

“Let’s buy a huge hammock and hang it in my living room. You can sleep in there and I’ll topple you out occasionally for fun,” Daehyun gleefully announces, irises glistening like a child.

“What a loving boyfriend you are.”

“I do my best,” Daehyun says in satisfaction. “But seriously, let’s do it. I’ve always wanted a hammock. You can read your books in it.”

“No way. You’d probably try to screw me inside,” Youngjae drawls. Daehyun widens his eyes and he comically flushes.

“I wasn’t thinking about that. Your brain’s polluted, kid,” he groans, knocking Youngjae’s head with a knuckle. “You think we can romp in a hammock without breaking it?”

“So, you’re not going to touch me weirdly while I’m lying inside it?” Youngjae asks.

Daehyun pauses, wearing a contemplative look. Youngjae smacks him on the arm and Daehyun melts into a summer laugh, sunburns and beach sand trickling into the air.

“I won’t. I promise.”

Youngjae folds his lips. “Then what’s the point of getting a hammock?” He remarks, much to Daehyun’s sheer astonishment.

“What- Yoo Youngjae,” Daehyun heaves in disbelief. “Do you want the hammock or not?”

“Yes,” Youngjae bubbles. “Let’s go to IKEA and get one. I want to eat their meatballs.”

“Okay,” Daehyun chuckles, discreetly touching Youngjae’s hand as he reaches for his coffee. “I’ve been thinking we should buy a house of our own with everything new. We could go look around, too.”

Youngjae blinks sharply. “Why? Your house is great. Besides, I haven’t even moved out.”

“I want us to have our own house, not for you to move into my house.”

“There’s no difference.” Youngjae flares his nostrils. “I’m not going to move in faster because you buy a house.”

“It’s not about that. I just want us to have our own place. We can design it and buy furniture together.”

Youngjae gapes. “I know you earn a lot as an audit manager, but are you that rich you can just buy another house when you want to?”

“I’m not, but if we sell this house, we can buy another. I’ve saved up a lot too.” Daehyun blows up one cheek. “You sound really against it.”

“I’m not, I just don’t want you to waste so much money.”

“Well, just think about it,” Daehyun suggests. “But let’s get the hammock first.”

A sparse few patrons bumble around the store with the radio whistling more commercial jingles. The cashier sits in a corner, browsing through newspapers.

“Before I met you, I was always looking for things to do,” Youngjae comments offhandedly.

Daehyun smiles. “Is it different now?”

“Nope, I’m still looking for stuff to do. But it’s more fun because we brainstorm and do them together.”

“Yeah, it is,” Daehyun exhales thoughtfully. “For me, I had lots of stuff I wanted to do but it’s better to do them with someone.”

Youngjae rests his hand by Daehyun’s wrist, their seemingly meaningless touches a subtle form of affection. “Have we done all that you’ve wanted to do?”

“Yeah, but I want to do more of them.”

Heat crawls up Youngjae’s cheeks and he draws his hand away in shyness. “You know a lot of good places. Feels like you had a better social life than me.”

“I told you I was less friendless than you.”

“Yet you still ended up as friendless as me. How’d that happen?” Youngjae wraps his question in a playful tone.

Daehyun shrugs, lighthearted expression visibly dimming. Youngjae plays with his fingers as he tries in a gentler voice, “Your colleagues, right? Work got in the way?”

Daehyun smiles and clicks his tongue. “Don’t rub my friendlessness in my face or I’ll do it to you too.” His eyes flicker over in sincere curiosity. “You seem like the social type. I bet you were popular in college.”

“In high school too,” Youngjae boasts brightly. “Alright, I wasn’t really a popular kid. But I did have a lot of friends.”

He stirs his coffee with a wistful sigh. “After I dropped out and I worked towards being a published writer, we still kept in contact. It got embarrassing when I still hadn’t gotten anywhere while they were all so successful, so I kept my distance. Felt like I was being left behind.”

Daehyun simmers into a soft look, the conversation staling heavily around them.

“Probably shouldn’t have done that,” Youngjae adds on with a grin, trying to rescue the atmosphere. “Now, I’m stuck with you.”

“You should be grateful,” Daehyun snorts.

“Says the guy who approached me first.” Youngjae sticks out his tongue. Daehyun lets out a low chuckle, staring for longer than a normal friend would. His hand finds its way under the table, stroking Youngjae’s thigh softly.

“I don’t know why I did it either, honestly,” he reminisces with a silly grin that makes Youngjae fall a little harder. “I just suddenly felt the urge to go up to you. I don’t usually approach strangers, FYI.”

“I can tell. You become awkward when the cashier talks to you for too long,” Youngjae muffles a laugh. His gaze falls as Daehyun gently squeezes his thigh.

“I’m glad you did, though. Now, we have each other to do dumb things with all the time.”

Youngjae rests his hand on his thigh and Daehyun streaks his fingers down over it. “I’m the one who plans our dates most of the time. Are you dissing me?”

“Yes.” Youngjae takes his coffee and jolts when Daehyun purposely goes too far up his thigh.

“Hey, I want to write a romance story next and I need ideas. What do you think is the most romantic thing a girl can do for a guy?”

Daehyun ponders. “Huh. I don’t know.” He scratches his head. “I always thought the whole  _surprising the guy with a lunchbox_  thing is nice, though.”

“Lame. You’re always thinking about food.”

“Then come up with ideas yourself.” Daehyun snivels. “Uh, she can compliment him? Game together?”

“You are really easily pleased.”

“I can say the same for you, since just one of my fingers does the job.”

Youngjae pushes Daehyun off his seat.

 

\--

 

Packing a large serving of his own-made Kimchi fried rice into a lunchbox, Youngjae mirthfully places it into an insulated carrier along with a bottle of honey and lemon tea and a packet of jam-filled cookies. Every cliched saying stems from some bit of reality that either became too romanticised or truly happened too often—and in the case of Youngjae’s pounding heart, he cornily supposes it’s the latter.

Checking the time, Youngjae leaves the house with a skip in his steps. Like an infatuated schoolgirl, like a young boy too in love with a season, Youngjae joins the crowd and heads towards the bus-stop. He waits, remember the bus number to Daehyun’s workplace. The memories drench him in bits of sunlight—how the evening sun framed his new friend’s face, the awkward pauses and the lapses of laughter. The bus loops, and Youngjae recalls that too.

_Hopelessly in love, the flowers bleed from her hands into a summer song. She keeps his words in a cookie jar so that no matter how hard the wind blows, her beloved weather is always with her. His long lashes, his thick lips, his narrow shoulders, his nasal laugh. The cookie jar is always warm with the pieces of him. In a small crack at the bottom, Spring lingers on through her blushes and how he holds her tight to sleep._

Youngjae hums a soft tune to a few songs Daehyun likes to play. The bus is largely empty, bustling in mornings and evenings as it ferries workers back and forth. Youngjae hugs the bag and texts Daehyun.

 _Your lunch hour is twelve-thirty to one-thirty, right?_ He asks for confirmation. Daehyun always calls or texts him during this hour, talking about everything under the sun.

 _Yeah. Why?_ Daehyun replies.

_Nothing. Just writing a story about an office worker. Where do you guys usually eat?_

_There’s a cafeteria at my workplace,_ Daehyun answers.  _I usually get some food from there and bring it up to eat. Others eat at the cafeteria; some go out and eat at the nearby restaurants._

Youngjae thinks to himself. He could get something to eat there so they can spend lunch together.

_Okay. Why don’t you eat at the cafeteria?_

_Work,_ Daehyun answers.  _What are you writing about?_

_It’s not writing, actually. Just complaining about you in my diary._

_I’ll burn it when I get home,_ Daehyun returns, to which Youngjae snickers.

In an hour, Youngjae reaches Daehyun’s workplace. It’s almost a replica of the adjacent high-rise buildings, grey and marble adorning the exterior. Excitement drizzles down to his fingertips and he enters the building, finding the lift lobby. Several office workers are already filing out, chattering amongst themselves.

Youngjae sends a message to Daehyun.  _Are you working now?_

_Yeah. About to go for my break in a few more minutes. Are you bored?_

Youngjae grins to himself.  _Come down to the lift lobby on the first floor._

It takes a while for Daehyun to reply.  _Youngjae, are you at my office?_

Youngjae tucks away his phone and bounces on the balls of his feet in anticipation. His phone vibrates a few more times as he checks the contents of his bag. Fried rice, the honey and lemon tea Daehyun likes, snacks for Daehyun to munch on later while he’s working.

He hopes Daehyun likes it.

More groups of workers stream out as Youngjae keeps watch. He lights up once the doors of the furthest lift open up and Daehyun emerges. He’s wearing an odd expression, anxiousness bruising in his furrowed brows. He scans the area hastily and almost misses Youngjae till he does a second take. Daehyun widens his eyes and briskly strides over.

Youngjae parts his lips to greet Daehyun merrily. Daehyun beats him to it.

“Youngjae, what are you doing here?” He blurts in a hushed voice. “Why didn’t you tell me beforehand that you were coming?”

Youngjae flutters his lashes. He reaches into his bag while explaining, “Oh, I wanted to surprise you with lunch. I made Kimchi fried rice.” He musters up a smile, not at all expecting Daehyun’s reaction. He seems… angry.

“You can’t just come here without informing me,” Daehyun whispers urgently, like the whole world will whip their heads towards them if he speaks a decibel louder.

“That would ruin the surprise, idiot. You said it was romantic,” Youngjae jokes, fingers discreetly curling in hurt. “The food’s good, I swear. I didn’t burn the rice this time.”

Daehyun doesn’t laugh. Instead, his eyes dart around tensely. “Let’s go somewhere else first,” he wheezes and grabs Youngjae’s wrist. Just as he’s about to pull Youngjae away, he stiffly halts at a voice.

“Daehyun!” A man approaches with a lady in tow, voice deep and a warm grin on his face. “We’re going to eat at Hanwoori. Come with us. Sunhwa has a special discount card.”

“Oh my god, shut up, Yongguk! Everyone’s going to know and they’ll want to come along.” The lady elbows the man as they step closer.

“Anyway, I remember you used to love the bulgogi there, Daehyun! And the noraebang beside it. So, come join us!” the woman chirps, cutely shaking her fists in excitement. She wears an odd smile—hopeful, yet bracing for disappointment.

They’re too near to have missed Daehyun letting go of Youngjae’s wrist. The pair, probably colleagues of Daehyun, stare curiously at Youngjae and back to Daehyun.

“It’s alright. Thanks,” Daehyun utters with a dry smile. The distress amplifies in his eyes.

“Who’s this?” Sunhwa asks, hospitality drenching her friendly tone. Daehyun’s gaze flickers back to Youngjae with so much fear that Youngjae’s heart plunges into his guts.

They stand in a brief silence as Youngjae shrouds his bag behind him. A lump rises in his throat and he feels his eyes burn. It’s a bit hard to breathe, as if his windpipe has collapsed into debris.

Of course he should have asked. How could he just barge in here as if Daehyun didn’t have his face to worry about? They’re two guys who are dating, for fuck’s sake. Worse, he’s a bum who calls himself a writer when his only paid works are basically porn. He leeches off Daehyun; it’s expected he’s seen as some embarrassing stain.

Of course he should have asked first.

“Ah, I’m Daehyun’s friend, Youngjae. Hello,” Youngjae pipes up with a wide smile.

“Hello! I’m Sunhwa. This oaf is Yongguk. You’re Daehyun’s friend? Did you guys meet recently?” Sunhwa questions.

“Oh, no. I’m his old friend from school,” Youngjae lies. His smile pricks into his cheeks and his words come out thankfully strong despite how shaky his voice feels. “I haven’t seen Daehyun in a long time, so since I was in the area, I just popped by to say hi.”

“Wow, did you bring Daehyun lunch?” Sunhwa lilts. “You’re so nice.”

Youngjae gulps. He nervously chuckles, “Yeah. Since he’s got a timed break, I decided to just get takeaway for both of us.”

“Why don’t you bring me lunch, Yongguk? Is it because you’re bad at cooking?” Sunhwa blows at her fringe. “You can at least visit me.”

“Stop being stupid, Sunhwa. You sit right opposite me.”

Yongguk cordially addresses Youngjae. “When did you guys meet? Daehyun moved from Busan, right?”

“Yes. We met in high school,” Youngjae shares cheerily, pausing when his voice audibly shakes. “I think it was our second year? Or maybe our third year-”

“He’s my boyfriend.”

Daehyun’s words slice through the conversation. Youngjae’s heart nearly stops and he swivels his stare to Daehyun, fright suffusing his every vein. He feels his entire self shrivel into excruciating remorse. He shouldn’t have come. Why did he have to mess up a normal day for Daehyun?

Yongguk and Sunhwa gaze at them, evidently astonished. Daehyun lowers his gaze.

“He’s not my friend from high school. He’s my boyfriend,” Daehyun repeats, voice weak and hoarse. His fingers crawl up to hold Youngjae’s wrist.

“Wow!” Sunhwa's voice suddenly stings, too loud even though it hasn’t changed at all from before. Sunhwa melts into a broad smile and gasps, “Congratulations!” She turns to Daehyun and grins. “Daehyun, he’s so much more beautiful than Jieun! And so cute too-”

“Sunhwa.” Yongguk’s stern yet quiet voice cuts off Sunhwa’s rambling. He smiles genuinely and says, “Congratulations, I’m really happy for you two. You guys look really good together.”

Youngjae forces out a watery simper, trembling fingers clutching at his bag. His throat fails him and they sink into a drawn-out silence.

“Since you two are having lunch together, we shan’t disturb you,” Yongguk hums kindly. “We’ll see you later, Daehyun. And it was really nice meeting you, Youngjae.”

They vanish before Youngjae has the time to process it. He only comes to his senses when Daehyun pulls him by the wrist. “Let’s go sit down,” he breathes, fatigue mangling his tone.

They wind up at a musty diner with only one other patron in the corner, biding his time with a book. Their booth is hidden behind a wall from prying eyes. Daehyun orders a green tea smoothie for Youngjae and they submerge in an agonising wordlessness.

Daehyun has his stare fixated on the table. It cuts in an even deeper wound through Youngjae’s ribcage, like someone punctured through his lungs.

The waitress brings Youngjae his drink. He doesn’t touch it.

“Sorry,” Youngjae says, unsure of why he’s smiling so forcefully in front of Daehyun. He’s bared his scars and tears to him, demons even he can’t bear to face in the mirror as he dwells over word count and dusty books.

“I’m really sorry. I was stupid; I should have asked you first.” Youngjae rubs his wrist and pretends to scratch his eyes so he can dash away his tears. “So much for being romantic, huh?” He chuckles.

Daehyun stares blankly at the table. He looks so out of it that Youngjae has to bite back the urge to cry. He’s responsible for this—for cornering Daehyun and forcing him to come out. He felt terrible when Daehyun tried so hastily to chase him away but this feels unimaginably worse.

“I was scared.”

Youngjae glances up at Daehyun. Daehyun’s lower lip trembles, his eyes still trained on the tablecloth.

“They know about my ex-fiancée. I don’t want them to think I changed my preferences all because she cheated on me.”

Youngjae flits his lashes. “Oh. Yeah, that’s understandable,” he whispers. “Sorry.”

Daehyun looks more distraught despite his confession. He suddenly leans forward and kisses Youngjae, desperation drowning his clinging fingers. He finally locks eyes with Youngjae.

“I’m sorry. I’m such a bastard, aren’t I?” he breathes.

“No, I get it. I’d be scared too. Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry for coming without notice,” Youngjae assures softly. Of course, it still hurts to know that his existence is a potential source of humiliation for Daehyun, but Youngjae knows how gossip can skin a person alive.

Daehyun slips back into his seat. Another bout of silence ties around their necks despite the diner staff blabbering in the backdrop.

Daehyun’s shoulders fall. “I don’t know if I’ve told you this,” he rasps, “but I used to be very close to my colleagues. We’d go out often on the weekends. After my ex-fiancée and I broke up, I grew apart from them.”

Daehyun blinks, long, slow, utterly exhausted as if every year has been pulling down on his skin. It takes a long time for him to finally speak again.

“I don’t want it to happen again,” he whispers, words uncannily vulnerable.

Youngjae fists his pants under the table. “You mean, drifting apart from your colleagues?” He earnestly spouts, “I won’t interfere with you and them, I promise.”

“It’s not that.” Daehyun’s eyes glaze over with a ghastly murkiness.

"That night, they saw her with another man. When they told me, I didn’t believe it. I was so angry with them for even suggesting it—until I asked her, and she didn’t even try to lie about it. She was just waiting for me to realise so I could free her from her misery. She was tired of us but she didn’t want to hurt me because I gave her so much over the years."

"Yet, she didn’t even think twice about emptying the bank account I opened for her. She thought ditching me out of the blue was better than telling me straight."

“It hurt like shit, and it was really humiliating too,” Daehyun chuckles softly. “Not only because my colleagues knew I’d been cheated on, but because I kept denying it like the fucking idiot I was. I couldn’t face them after that.”

“I lost everything. I lost my wife and my future. We- no,  _I_  was planning to have children with her, to raise them together, to grow old with her. And on top of that, I lost my friends too.”

Youngjae’s heart scrunches up into a scathing bruise, digging blue into his chest. So this is why Daehyun fell apart with his old friends—and why he never reconciled with them, despite saying they were nice people.

“It’s not your fault, Daehyun. She’s the one that took advantage of your trust; why are you the idiot because of it?” Youngjae breathes, reaching over to grasp Daehyun’s hand.

“Because I threw away everything I had after she left,” Daehyun heaves. “My friends, my family—I distanced myself from them. My friends wanted to help me but I felt so pathetic.”

“I spent three years on my own, Youngjae. I was so, so lonely,” Daehyun wearily utters. “But I couldn’t do anything about it. I had to go to work and face the people who knew, the people who I lashed out at like a complete idiot. I couldn’t even hide it from my mother who was waiting so happily for the wedding.”

“I really, really felt so alone. I didn’t even know why I bothered waking up every day. I’d bury myself in work so I didn’t have to talk to anyone. Just one moment, and I lost everything. I had no idea what I was going to do with my life, honestly. Sometimes, it felt like I’d be better off dead. .”

Daehyun pauses to stare at their twined hands. He speaks faintly, “Only after I met you did things become better.”

“I’m scared,” he breathes like an empty mantra. “I’m really scared, Youngjae.”

“I’d never do something so horrible to you, Daehyun. Really,” Youngjae urges, clasping at Daehyun’s fingers. His forlorn eyes search Daehyun’s abysmal irises.

“Even if things don’t work out between us, I’d never date someone behind your back. I’d tell you upfront. You don’t have to worry that you’ll lose your friends and family because of me, I promise.”

“That’s not what I’m scared of,” Daehyun rasps. He churns out a sad smile, bleak gaze raking over Youngjae’s face.

“I’m sorry. I know you wouldn’t, but… I still can’t stop myself from wondering. I trusted her and look where that got me.” Daehyun’s fingers shake beneath Youngjae’s palm. “If everything happens again—you cheat on me and my friends tell me—I’d be so angry,” he grits. "And it’s really sad because I’d be angry at them and not you."

Daehyun’s eyes well up with tears as he laughs. “I’d hate them so much for breaking it to me. I really would. For taking you away from me. For ruining my happiness with you. I’d rather not know until I die. I don’t mind if you cheat but you can’t let me know.”

“Daehyun…” Youngjae’s voice shrivels as he tears up. This is the first time he’s seen Daehyun cry and it hurts more so than he can ever put into words. His throat sears with the memories of Daehyun clinging on too tight in his sleep.

“I’m so scared, Youngjae. When I think of it happening again…” Daehyun’s words dwindle pathetically. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s me that’s the problem. Will you see me like how she did eventually? I didn’t know she’d been feeling that way for years. Do you think the same? That I deserve it?”

“No, Daehyun, I would never,” Youngjae pleads desperately. “Believe me-”

“I don’t want them to ever know about you,” Daehyun rasps, interrupting Youngjae. “I don’t want  _anyone_  I know to know about you. Then, they'd never be able to take you away from me.”

The tears spill over and streaks down Daehyun’s cheeks. He looks so broken, raw beneath the tiredness that haunts him perpetually. It breaks Youngjae’s heart into smithereens.

“I love you,” Daehyun shakily whispers. “I love you so much. I know I’m being dramatic—it’s been five years since it happened, and people cheat all the time. I thought I’d gotten over it. But I can’t lose everything a second time. I don’t want it to happen again; I can’t let them take you away from me. You are the only thing that’s made me happy in these past five years.”

“So please, if you ever want to cheat, do it well,” Daehyun croaks, his smile burning into his skin alongside his contradictory tears. “I don’t ask for much. Just don’t let me find out. You know how my colleagues look like, so please, don’t let them find out too. Because I love you more than I’ve ever loved her in those seven years and it’s driving me crazy.”

Daehyun exhales, heaviness weighing down his shoulders. “You don’t know how hard my hands were shaking when I saw you with Junhong that night. I wanted to walk away and pretend I didn’t see anything. I didn’t want to ask. I really didn’t, but I don’t know why I still asked. And that’s when I realised it—how much I love you. I thought of you saying you loved him instead of me, and I decided I’d rather die than hear it.”

“I can live with what she did to me, but if I ever find out you’re cheating on me, I’d kill myself. I mean it,” Daehyun whispers. His fingers shudder, inching closer like begging for warmth.

“Daehyun,” Youngjae’s voices crack as wet warmth seethes over his jawline. He grips Daehyun’s hand tighter. “I’d never cheat on you, Daehyun. I won’t ever do it. I swear, I’ll never do something like that to you. I  _swear_.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind if it means you’ll be happy enough to stay with me,” Daehyun sighs as he gazes tiredly at their interlocked hands. He looks so drained as if his every wheeze has to be intentional, else he’ll stop breathing. Youngjae watches helplessly as Daehyun’s tears keep falling.

“Just please… don’t let me find out.”

 

\--

 

Night time seeps over the blanched sunset like a nauseous blot of ink. The grey billows of clouds hang over the damp streets, passers-by always the same with their chipped watches and long coats. Daehyun stands on the balcony with a cigarette clipped between his fingers.

Ashes drip from the lit bud down seven floors. Daehyun breathes in nicotine and expels smoke as an evening routine, just for today. Youngjae watches from the bed with the glass doors separating them. He can’t hear any of Daehyun’s heavy exhales, but he sieves out how Daehyun’s back trembles ever so slightly.

Daehyun re-enters with the tears absent from his face. His eyes are red and Youngjae says nothing about it.

Their eyes meet. “Shall we go to sleep?” Youngjae starts tenderly. Daehyun nods with a small smile.

They settle under the sheets, lethargy maiming their faces. Daehyun twines his arms around Youngjae’s waist and learns to breathe without the cigarettes. Inhale Youngjae’s scent, exhale the words he could never tell anyone. Youngjae hugs him close.

“I’m sorry for getting mad at you over the dresser,” Daehyun remarks. He presses his nose deeper into hair.

“It’s okay,” Youngjae answers with a bittersweet sting in his eyes. He’s an absolute idiot for not realising. What bachelor would own a vanity dresser for a woman, especially one that he never uses? He’s a fool that never paid attention. He didn’t dig deep enough and stupidly insisted on giving Daehyun space. No, perhaps it’s because he assumed the scars weren’t still bleeding out, so he let Daehyun bottle it all up.

A long time ago, Daehyun once told Youngjae that he had gotten engaged and he’d bought the house and furniture, only to find out how horrid his fiancée was. Seven years is a long, long time to love someone and realise you know nothing about how hideous they can be. Youngjae understands a little bit through the seven years of painstaking effort he writes away.

“It was ugly. You’d probably break your back for what, $20?” Youngjae mentions.

Daehyun faintly laughs. He remarks, "I thought you were mocking me. I know you'd never do that, but somehow, it just felt that way." He holds Youngjae tighter. “Seeing you look at it... Maybe you’ll think of her and wonder why she cheated on me.”

“I wouldn’t,” Youngjae firmly returns, combing Daehyun’s hair delicately. “I’ll just think about how horrible she was and how she would never in a million years deserve you. It wasn’t your fault, Daehyun.”

Daehyun smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. His fingers sink into Youngjae’s back, feeling, clinging, revealing.

“Do you know what it’s like to suddenly lose everything?” He hums tiredly. “I worked for years, saving up for our marriage, for our house, for our children. I told her how excited I was to become a father and she told me she wanted a daughter first. She was already cheating by then.”

Daehyun shuts his eyes. “She sat with me as we picked out our house and the furniture. She didn’t like the dressers there so I had one made just for her. We even thought of names for our kids. I really wonder what she was thinking then for that entire year she cheated on me. Did she want to hold on to me? Was she not sure at that time? I don’t know.”

“It was hard to get over it because she’d been with me since I was nineteen,” Daehyun’s fingers knead Youngjae’s shirt. “My entire future just collapsed into nothing. I was left wondering what to do, where to go… I didn't know how to start over." 

"Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. How do I lie to my mother and my relatives what happened when I bought the house and we were already engaged?”

“I keep wondering," Daehyun sighs, "if there was something so wrong with me that she couldn’t just tell me. Was I so terrifying she had to do this? I would have let her go if she told me straight. Did I look so pitiful that she thought lying to me was better? Or did I not give her enough; was I not good enough? I don't know if it’s my fault and I deserve it.” Daehyun instinctively shifts nearer, vulnerably seeking solace and closeness.

“It’s her fault, Daehyun,” Youngjae whispers, a poignant bitterness crawling between his ribs. “She did this behind your back for a year and never confessed to you. Even if she was tired, how could she hold on to you like that? She didn’t put off the marriage; she lied to you and even went out of her way to act like she’d really spend her life with you. If she felt bad for you, how could she just let it all go on like that without any guilt? She’s… she’s horrible.”

Youngjae’s nails dig into his palm. “She didn't hide it from you because she cared about you. She was selfish. She probably wanted to find out if she wanted you or not. And when she decided she didn’t, she didn’t want to face the consequences. She’d rather ditch you and run away instead of telling you,” he grits, anger scratching at his watering eyes. He hastily swallows the tears back.

“It’s not your fault, Daehyun. It really isn’t. You aren't some horrible person; she took advantage of you in the worst way she could. She had so many chances to tell you but she didn’t want to. So don’t blame how disgusting she was on yourself.”

Youngjae crawls up and delicately cradles Daehyun’s face in his chest. The hatred digs deep within him as he delves into Daehyun’s barren eyes.

Daehyun smiles. “You were the first person I opened up to about her. Even though I didn’t tell you much then, it really made me feel better. But I regretted it so much after we got together. Just telling you now... I'm really a complete idiot.”

Youngjae curls his fingers, not expecting the response.

“I keep reminding you…” Daehyun presses his nose against Youngjae’s heart, breathing slow. “Of what went wrong, that I wasn’t good enough… like stupidly telling you to look out for everything wrong with me. I’m scared one day you’ll think,  _so that’s why she did it_.”

“Daehyun, I won’t. I won’t ever think like her,” Youngjae stresses, misery clenching through his lungs. “I won’t cheat on you. No matter what happens between us, I swear, I’ll never stoop to her level. I’ll never hurt you like that.”

“You met someone horrible and I can’t give you back the years you wasted on her… But I’ll love and take care of you," Youngjae softly says. "We’ll work through things if they ever go wrong.”

Daehyun looks up with a watery simper and gently prods Youngjae’s forehead. “Yeah, you'd never cheat. You’re too much of an idiot to know there are better people out there.”

Youngjae isn’t sure what expression he's making, but Daehyun’s grin trickles away into a sorry smile.

“Thank you for today. For listening to me even though I was embarrassing, and for lunch. I’m sorry I didn’t get to eat it.”

“I’m really sorry,” Daehyun’s breath scrapes over Youngjae’s skin. “You must have put in so much effort and I ruined it. I’m really sorry for everything.”

“It’s okay, Daehyun. I’ll make another lunchbox for you to bring to work if you’d like. And I want to listen to you. Don’t hide things from me and tell me everything that’s bothering you. I don’t want you to ever be sad,” Youngjae murmurs softly.

Daehyun smiles into his flesh. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Dwelling in a lengthy silence, Daehyun listens to Youngjae’s heartbeat as a lullaby.

 “Why’d you tell your colleagues we were dating?” Youngjae asks in a small voice.

“…You looked so hurt,” Daehyun rasps. “I’d rather it’d be me than you.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

Daehyun nuzzles his cheek against Youngjae, feeling his ribcage. “Don’t worry about it. They’re nice people.”

“Still…” Youngjae’s protest drifts off into a sigh. He gingerly strokes Daehyun’s hair and kisses his forehead.

“You must be tired. Go to sleep,” he soothes. “I’ll make something really nice for dinner tomorrow, okay?”

“Can you cook curry for me?”

Youngjae exhales a spell of bruised blue. “I will. I’ll add lots of chicken.”

“Don’t burn the rice this time,” Daehyun jokes. Youngjae laughs tautly.

When Daehyun drifts into a dreamless slumber, Youngjae lets his tears scratch down his cheeks. He gasps softly and bites back his shaky exhales, keeping deathly quiet so Daehyun doesn’t hear him. His fingers clutch at Daehyun’s shirt as he weeps in sorrow, thinking of the tears that scarred Daehyun's face this afternoon.

Daehyun stirs. Youngjae gulps every fragment of his grief back down his throat. He stills when Daehyun moves up to meet his eyes.

“Don’t cry,” Daehyun breathes, heartache engulfing his irises. “I’m sorry for making you sad.”

Youngjae tries to protest but all that spills is a feeble sob. He struggles to stop, weeping mutely into his hands. Daehyun dashes away his tears and hugs him tight, fear of letting go embedded in his clawing fingers.

“Don’t cry, Youngjae. Please. You’re the only reason I learnt how to be happy again,” Daehyun remorsefully croaks. He clasps Youngjae’s hands and kisses his cheek, murmuring pacifying words despite his own tears.

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

**[open-ended](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuC2sc-1CMU&list=PLflKpEjRZwlfbseXgO4AlUJqjzOnGqPKe) **

_Daehyun/Youngjae_

 

 

“Pass me the tape, kid,” Daehyun calls from the other end of the room. Youngjae tosses it over, snivelling at the burst of dust once he shifts out the box. He stacks it by the rest while Daehyun tries to tear the tape with his teeth.

“Stop being stupid.” Youngjae crawls over and cuts the tape with a scissors.

“I was trying to look manly,” Daehyun remarks. He snips away the part with his saliva and flicks it into the bin. Taping up the box containing Youngjae’s written books, he wipes the perspiration off his forehead and lies on the ground.

“We did it!” Daehyun yells. Youngjae giggles and plops his head on Daehyun’s stomach, earning a grunt.

“Thanks for helping me out.” Youngjae hums softly when Daehyun threads his fingers through his hair.

“You’re talking like you aren’t moving into my house. _Our_ house.”

Youngjae nestles against Daehyun’s hand, his eyes fluttering shut. “Thinking about unpacking is already making me so tired,” he groans. “And I don’t even have that much stuff.”

“With the both of us, it’ll take just a week,” Daehyun assures. “We can go shop for drawers and cupboards on the weekend. I want to buy a mug for you.”

Youngjae rolls over to face Daehyun, mostly staring at his chin from this angle. Youngjae pokes it and Daehyun squawks, blindly slapping Youngjae. “What’s your problem, kid?”

Youngjae scoots off with a cheeky grin. Daehyun chases him to the couch and wrestles him down, screams erupting alongside childish laughter. Daehyun stops to kiss Youngjae and they melt into each other’s warm hold, soft, gentle, lovelorn.

Evening crawls over their silhouettes as they settle in the living room. Daehyun has his guitar perched on his lap, plucking strings to the first song Youngjae heard him play: _A year ago today._ Bitter and dry, it reminded Youngjae of a barren countryside where the sun eats away at the villager’s skin, fields parched and wishing for rainfall.

Youngjae mentioned he recognised the song to Daehyun when they first met, but he’s never heard it before. Youngjae wonders where the tint of familiarity came to him on that drizzly day.

Daehyun slows to a stop as the serenity clouds the silence, rose flush dispersing over the ambience. They spent their Saturdays here, marble sounds dripping between their fingers and how their shoulders often brushed. Youngjae remembers when Daehyun developed a bad habit of squeezing Youngjae’s thighs, what he still does now and has become a second skin for Youngjae. He remembers when Daehyun borrowed _How We Breathe_ , glazing over the words with his dark circles imprinted into his cheeks. The tobacco stench seems so distant like a story Youngjae made up in his head, but it had been a three-year asphyxiation for Daehyun.

“You confessed to me while I sat here,” Daehyun hums, batting his lashes with a nostalgic smile. “May 7th. You were sitting at the dining table and you didn’t even bother looking at me. I seriously thought I heard you wrong. Even the girl who confessed to me in kindergarten gave me a card at least.”

Youngjae chortles at him. “You don’t deserve it.” He feels breathless when Daehyun glances over to him with an amused snort. There’s acne underneath Daehyun’s jaw and his eyebags get a little more prominent as time goes on. Youngjae thinks he looks handsome still, but he doesn’t say it so Daehyun doesn’t get another insufferable ego boost.

The wrinkles down Daehyun’s cheeks have particularly been worrying Daehyun. He grumbles that age is already doing its work, but Youngjae says smile lines are a good thing—it means he’s laughing more. Who cares about wrinkles if so?

“You kissed me here, and your hands were shaking,” Daehyun brings up with a haughty simper. His palm presses into the floor like trying to recall every smithereen of detail. How Youngjae knelt down and averted his gaze, perhaps. How Daehyun closed his eyes mid-way and decided that he wanted more, so he pinned Youngjae to the ground. How they felt each other intimately for the first time, breaths thin and bodies warm beneath the moonlight.

“And you shoved me down and tried to eat my face,” Youngjae shoots back. Daehyun concedes, shaking his head as the incandescence shimmers in his countenance.

“I’m really going to miss this place,” Daehyun heaves, wistfulness permeating his breathy words. “As shabby as it was, I really, really looked forward to coming here every weekend.”

Youngjae stifles a smile, pollen tickling his cheeks while his heartbeat falls away into a rapid beat. One, two, three, one, two, three.

Literary pieces draw upon all sorts of devices to execute a plot as well as it can, ambiguity and metaphors everywhere. Daehyun resembles one, in a sense. He speaks with insinuations (how he lies that Youngjae’s hands will get cold so he has a chance to hold them). His rare moments of being straightforward reminds Youngjae of his layers. Daehyun has learnt how to say ‘I love you’ without the fear, but his embarrassment never does go away.

Youngjae’s eyes rake over years of peeling ivory paint, absent silhouettes and only Junhong’s company once remembered in the walls. Then came Daehyun, and he bestowed this place with a wheeze of life despite looking as trapped in the fatigue as Youngjae. Daehyun was Youngjae’s escape from these four walls he imprisoned himself within, afraid to visit home with empty hands.

Youngjae sighs. “I’ll miss this place a little, too.”

There were many nights where he forced words out under his fingertips, slouched against his chair as he struggled to meet the next deadline because he held his dignity as a writer. He couldn’t wing a prompt, no matter if the product was just erotica, no matter how demeaning his assignments were. The darkness would every corner as Youngjae sank into the black. The only light left would come from his screen with that incomplete draft open, as if there was nowhere else Youngjae could look.

It was a jail cell on many days but it was still a home he thought he deserved, dingy and cramped. A home where he held hope and hoped for a better tomorrow without it.

Daehyun plays a few more songs as Youngjae reminisces, breaking apart sentimentality from each worn-out furniture. He says goodbye to the shelf in the bedroom where he kept his writings and shuts the door one last time to years of bittersweet memories.

He was twenty-five when he moved in and he’s thirty now.

Daehyun squeezes his hand and they walk to his car.

The drive is short. Youngjae hops into the hammock once they arrive at Daehyun’s house. Daehyun creeps in and after a deep kiss, he sneaks a hand up Youngjae’s shirt.

Youngjae pats Daehyun’s cheek. “If it breaks and we fall, I’m breaking up with you.” He dives in for another kiss, only for Daehyun to knock him aside. Youngjae screams when Daehyun fumblingly picks him up and heads to the bedroom.

Under the sheets, Daehyun grasps close and inhales, exhales. He has Youngjae’s body memorised like a map where the contours are borders and every tremble he ignites is a rainstorm. With love, he kisses down centimetres of skin and bones. Like a traveller, he leaves his smiles as footprints for Youngjae to keep.

Youngjae’s legs are nudged further apart as Daehyun fervidly kisses, forgetting he can’t go any closer. His length presses against Youngjae’s perineum. Youngjae whines for more and flushes at his own eagerness.

Fortunately, Daehyun doesn’t seize the chance to tease him. He’s distracted by everything Youngjae is and likewise, Youngjae can’t take his eyes off Daehyun. It’s funny how romantic all of their clumsiness seems in their head, their noses bumping and their voices hoarse.

Daehyun pushes Youngjae’s thighs up towards his chest. Youngjae covers his face behind his arm as Daehyun stares, irises dark and hazy. Youngjae clenches his fingers when Daehyun nips down stretch marks and discolourations.

With a gasp, Youngjae feels Daehyun push in deep. He’s warm, thick, and it makes Youngjae dizzy.

“I love you,” Youngjae wheezes. He blurts it out again when Daehyun thrusts in, palms bruising his hips.

Daehyun leans down to hear Youngjae’s breathing, perspiration streaking down his forehead. Youngjae says it again for him to hear.

“I really love you.” His voice breaks off embarrassingly into a moan, tickling Daehyun’s ear. Daehyun grips tighter and lets out a shuddering exhale.

His hands run down Youngjae’s chest as he nibbles on Youngjae’s neck. He moves slow, unravelling Youngjae into a mess of whimpers. Youngjae instinctively clenches around him when Daehyun strikes his sweet spot.

“I really love you too,” Daehyun whispers.

The next morning, Youngjae awakes to Daehyun still sleeping by his side. He gets up and fries some scrambled eggs and sausages for Daehyun and him. As he butters the toast, he turns to see Daehyun padding into the kitchen groggily. His hair is messed up and his shirt is crumpled.

“Morning,” Youngjae hums, spreading on the jam. He stops when he feels arms slip around his waist.

Daehyun kisses behind his ear and sighs contentedly, tightening his embrace. “Good morning.”

 

\--

 

_“Home isn’t a place,” he whispers. His fingers drip with snow as he cups her face._

_“It’s just where the heart wants to be—and my heart wants to be with you.”_

Daehyun muffles a laugh behind Youngjae as the flustered author whips his gaze from his notepad. “It’s cheesy, kid.”

“Stop peeking. And I know, but I like that line,” Youngjae embarrassedly admits. An autumn draft slips through the window and messes up his hair.

Daehyun places a cup of hot coffee on the desk, patting Youngjae’s shoulder. “Then keep it in.”

He wraps himself up in a cocoon with their blanket, settling in the armchair. “Have you finished your assignment?”

“No,” Youngjae mutters, relinquishing his pen. “I can’t squeeze out anymore. How do I make up a realistic scenario where a noble queen would want to sex it up with a lowly servant?”

“Make him ultra hot,” Daehyun suggests. “How much have you written?”

“Three-thousand. And it’s all backstory about the kingdom when it’s just going to lead up to sex,” Youngjae complains, flopping his head onto the table. “Why do I do this to myself?”

“That’s what I always ask you. Quit the job. You don’t need it.”

“I do,” Youngjae pouts. “Even if it’s a little, I want to pay for our household bills.”

Daehyun flattens his lips. “I said that you don’t need to,” he groans. “Why do you want to pay for it so badly?”

“Because it’s our home,” Youngjae firmly intones. “I want to take care of it too.”

“There are other ways to take care of our home than paying for it. You have to take care of yourself too,” Daehyun murmurs. “You’re putting yourself through a lot for this. I don’t want to see you do that over something that shouldn’t be worried about.”

“Think about it, Youngjae. If you’re not happy, then you should stop writing for them. They pay you little and it takes up so much of your time in return.” Daehyun paces over to crouch by Youngjae’s side. “Don’t fret so much about the expenses. You’re treating it as if you’re renting the place.”

Youngjae bites his lips, debating over his options. It’s true that he’s wholly sick of every new piece he has to vomit out under a week’s deadline that earns him thirty-dollars. Ad hoc jobs are alright here and there since they allow some creativity, no matter if he’s hired as a ghostwriter. However, the routine of writing erotica, wracking his brain for something more reasonable and yet riveting within the boundaries of the prompt—it crunches into his bones like an illness. It eats up days of the week, pays a measly sum and leaves a bad taste in his mouth with the questionable scenarios.

It’s his mistake. He framed his future at eighteen as living the dream of doing what he loved so much as a career. That was why he grappled with what could link the two and things turned awfully sour down the line. He loves writing, but not like this. Working part-time at a retail shop would earn him more than his erotica gig can ever offer. If he legitimately wants to help out at home, then he shouldn’t even be compromising what he can earn in his free time by insisting on the job falling under creative writing.

Youngjae exhales, glancing over to Daehyun. It’s stupid what he’s been doing for years.

“Mm,” Youngjae concedes. He sips at his coffee. “I’ll think about it.”

Daehyun snivels, discontentment scribbling over his face. He parts his mouth to argue but Youngjae interrupts him.

“I’ll really think about it this time. You’re right, honestly,” Youngjae mumbles, slanting his head to rest against the arm of the chair. “I wonder why I put myself through it all when I hate it so much.”

“That’s how I feel about smoking.” Daehyun strokes his chin. “I’ve quit smoking, so you quit writing porn, too.”

“You hate smoking? I never knew about that.”

Daehyun shrugs. “Quit the job,” he groans loudly. “I’ll, uh, give you something in return.”

“Give me a hot wife,” Youngjae jokes.

“What’s the point when you can’t keep her with how small your-”

Daehyun screams when Youngjae lunges at him.

 

\--

 

_I stand by the rivers and the suns, where the rain runs down into the stream and the wind breathes. Warmth drips down my skin like a song I’ve forgotten from decades ago._

_The houses have fallen. The people have left. But the sun still rises as though nothing has changed._

_Today, I regret my yesterdays. When tomorrow comes, I will regret today and its nothingness. And so, the cycle will go on till my bones are dust and I am buried in the sand._

_Perhaps then, I will find peace._

 

\--

 

Daehyun finishes making the prototype of Youngjae’s book, filled with blank pages and some crooked edges. It’s wrapped in maroon fabric with a sturdy binder and the strong fragrance of wood. Youngjae falls in love with it the moment Daehyun hands it to him. In exchange, the shimmer in his eyes becomes Daehyun’s happiness for another month.

Initially hesitant to desecrate it with his messy handwriting, Youngjae relents and decides to make it into a diary. As Daehyun snores horrendously by his side, Youngjae stays up to write another day’s worth of mementoes. He jots down the stupid things Daehyun blurts and their mundane trips to the convenience store, just so they can grasp a bit of their ebbing youth.

Youngjae pens down their bickers and fights too, sadness and frustration following his brisk scrawls. Sometimes, he wonders if it’s bad luck to log these occasions. Yet, strangely, Youngjae hopes to revisit their distant moments as much as their happy times.

Since Daehyun is paying their bills, Youngjae tells his parents he’s moved out and secured a job as an editor so they don’t have to send him allowance. He feels guilty for lying, but it’s the best he can do for now.

A month later, Youngjae’s mother finally retires from her job. Junhong assures Youngjae that she had always planned to quit around this time—but Youngjae knows how big of a burden he was on his parents.

 

\--

 

“Boo! You suck!”

Daehyun turns back, clutching onto the bowling ball with a squint. “I haven’t even rolled the ball, you asshole.”

Youngjae muffles back a chortle. Being amused by antics meant for ten-year-olds is his specialty. He’s come to accept it over the years.

Daehyun rolls the ball and missing the sole bowling pin. Youngjae hisses, making more dramatic sound effects till Daehyun strides over and clamps a hand over his mouth.

“Don’t make me regret bringing you out, Yoo Youngjae.” He nudges Youngjae out and doesn’t bother shrouding a laugh when Youngjae gets into position.

“What are you? A ballerina?”

“Screw off.” Youngjae rolls the ball and widens his eyes when he knocks down all the pins.

“Oh my god, I got a strike!” He obnoxiously shouts in the middle of the crowded bowling alley. “Did you see that? I’m amazing!”

“You’re embarrassing; that’s what you are,” Daehyun drawls as he covers his face.

Youngjae sticks out his tongue and drops down into the seat next to Daehyun.

“Do you want to go for another round?” Youngjae asks. “I’ll go ask for it.”

Daehyun holds Youngjae’s wrist before he can leave. “It’s okay. Aren’t you tired? You said you stayed up late last night.”

“I’m fine. So, shall we?” Youngjae hums, pretending he hadn’t chugged two cups of black coffee for Daehyun’s spontaneous date to the bowling alley. He had pulled an all-nighter trying to finish a burst of inspiration.

Daehyun gazes at him and a small smile trickles over his lips. “Let’s get takeaway and go home.” He ruffles Youngjae’s hair and stands, getting their belongings.

They queue together for Chinese fried noodles. With the warmth from their food pricking their hands, they walk back to Daehyun’s car. Daehyun drapes his jacket over Youngjae, one he’d brought along from work since they met straight the bowling alley.

“My boyfriend’s so good at bowling,” Youngjae coos as he settles down.

Daehyun turns down the radio and chuckles to himself, clearly pleased. Youngjae doesn’t know it’s because he called Daehyun his boyfriend.

Their small talk revolves around irrelevant topics that string from one to another, about whether paper kites can hold in the current winds and what’s the best time to eat ramen. Youngjae mentions truthfully that he eats with wooden chopsticks because it keeps the experience authentic—of midnights at the convenience store where the burned-out writer scribbles through the tough hours. Something so minor, yet so vital to the experience of it all.

“You’re really in love with concepts, aren’t you?” Daehyun remarks, one hand slack over the steering wheel while the other is twined with Youngjae’s fingers.

“Concepts?”

“Yeah. You said before you really love the city lights. Wearing a long coat holding a briefcase in the crowd and all that—even though you don’t have a nine-to-five job,” Daehyun snickers.

“Oh. Yeah, I did.” Youngjae glances to the windscreen, lights smearing over the glass as the asphalt melts into the darkness. Faces and tip-taps of shoes bleed past like the fastest movie in existence, slowing down at equally mundane moments with no climax at all.

Now that Daehyun has put it into words, Youngjae supposes it is true. He loves many concepts—being a rugged detective in a cold café with a notebook in hand, a world-weary smoker with a Martini between her fingers at the high-class bar, or two bright-eyed teenagers on a road trip with the wind in their hair.

“There’s just something so picture-perfect about it,” Youngjae confesses. “You know. Staring at the skyline from a hotel room, rain streaking down the windows… You’re on a business trip and by accident, you meet someone new that changes your life.”

Daehyun chuckles. “That’s how stories start.”

“Do you ever feel disenchanted?” He relaxes against the seat. “Your stories feel so magical but…”

“Hm… No, I don’t think so. I like stuff the way it is. It’s very raw.” Youngjae turns over, eyes innocent. “Meeting you was pretty magical though.”

Daehyun’s gaze darts to his thighs momentarily, evidently flustered. “Really?”

“Yeah. It’s not every day some snobbish busker tells me the song he’s playing isn’t Wonderwall—when I just asked what song it was.”

“Hey,” Daehyun groans. “You don’t know how many people have struck up a conversation with me and insisted I was playing Wonderwall when the key isn’t even the same.”

Youngjae giggles, nestling his cheek against Daehyun’s arm. “You’re lucky I’m an easy-going guy. I could have cussed you out at the bus-stop.”

“I wasn’t _that_ much of an asshole to deserve that.”

They simmer in a comfortable silence while the radio host blabbers about today’s news. Daehyun flexes his fingers.

“I’m going to start on your book soon, so pick a story quickly.”

“Really?” Youngjae gazes at Daehyun’s face, making out a trace of excitement. “You really like book binding, don’t you?”

“I’m excited to see your book printed. But yeah, it’s fun. I should be your publisher.”

“You’ve got a new passion,” Youngjae chuckles.

Daehyun rubs his nose with a grin. “Maybe. I’ve always wanted to have a passion. After guitar, I never really had anything that I loved like crazy.” He looks over. “Not like you and writing.”

“You can take part in competitive book binding,” Youngjae jokes. “Your dream is to become the world’s best book binder, better than all the machines out there.”

Daehyun laughs, rubbing his thumb into Youngjae’s palm. “Do you think everyone needs a passion?”

“Mm… As long as you love what you do, you don’t have to have something you love in particular, I think.”

“True,” Daehyun hums along. “Though, I think most people always look for that one thing they really love.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“It’s risky. Especially when you have people as your passion. Once they go, you have nothing left,” Daehyun muses, some fragments of his memories discernible in his low tone.

Youngjae reads him like the beloved storybooks from his teenage days, so in love with the allegories. He squeezes Daehyun’s hand.

“But just like things, you can always find new people.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Daehyun chuckles. He slows down to a stop at a traffic junction and presses back Youngjae’s headrest. “You can nap in the car.”

“It’s okay. You nap.”

Daehyun blinks. Youngjae halts and frowns at the words that spilled out from his lips, just as Daehyun clutches at his stomach and chortles.

“Okay, thanks, I will,” Daehyun laughs heartily. He throws himself over the steering wheel dramatically and feigns snoring.

Youngjae laughs and punches his shoulder.

 

\--

 

Daehyun grunts. While he sleeps, his cheek twitches every now and then because Youngjae is sneakily tickling him with his finger. When Daehyun blearily opens his eyes, Youngjae quickly turns over and shuts his eyes, pretending to be asleep.

There’s silence for a few moments. Youngjae jolts when Daehyun buries his face into the nape of his neck and mutters, “I know you did it, you asshole.”

He slings an arm around Youngjae’s waist as Youngjae muffles a soft laugh.

“Why are you awake at this hour?” Daehyun mumbles, still half asleep.

Youngjae snuggles into Daehyun’s hold. “I don’t know. I woke up and I’m bored.”

“Well…” Daehyun drifts off, nearly falling back asleep when he remembers he hasn’t finished his reply.

“Go watch TV or something,” he suggests.

“I don’t want to,” Youngjae says, gazing out at a Friday night dose of darkness. Daehyun’s breath still smells of ginger.

“Uh…” Daehyun tiredly rests his forehead against the back of Youngjae’s head. “Go read a book?”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“Then go for a walk, kid,” Daehyun heaves.

“No.”

Daehyun presses himself into Youngjae. “Go die.”

 

\--

 

Weekdays begin with Daehyun’s shrill alarm, the air stagnant with morning dew and the absence of city lights. Daehyun schlepps to the bathroom while Youngjae rolls out of bed to make Daehyun breakfast, even though Daehyun always insists for him to go back to sleep.

They eat at the table silently, still in a post-dream stupor. Sometimes, it’s eggs and toast. Other times, it’s oatmeal with strawberries. The conversation about when Daehyun will be back eases in later as Daehyun downs his coffee, sunrise creeping over the window sills.

Soft words, brief touches, chaste kisses. Daehyun leaves for work with one of Youngjae’s writings occasionally, taken without Youngjae’s knowledge most of the time. (He finds out later when Daehyun sends him a photo, asking how to read some of Youngjae’s illegible words.)

It’s Tuesday. After a quick dinner of fries and burgers, Daehyun sits cross-legged on the floor in front of his laptop, beside the bed. He squints and cranes his head, pausing his videos about book-binding.

Youngjae secretly takes a few photos while lounging on the bed. He goes back to fleshing out character profiles for one of his incomplete novels in hopes of motivating himself to finish.

“Have you decided on which work you want to make into a book?” Daehyun asks when he finishes watching the video. He catches Youngjae’s big toe with two fingers.

Youngjae squirms his leg away. “Um, yeah,” he says with a tiny bit of embarrassment, shifting nearer to lie on his stomach. “ _How We Breathe_.”

Daehyun simpers. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Why that one?”

“Because it’s the first book you read from me.”

Daehyun’s eyes crinkle along the sides. “I like your choice. I was thinking about it, too.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the first book I read from you. And it made me quit smoking.”

“I never believed that.” Youngjae rests his chin on his crossed arms. His cheeks tingle with sweet pink.

“It’s true,” Daehyun protests. “It made me think about who I was leaving behind all because of one person.”

Youngjae smiles. He pecks Daehyun on the cheek. “I’m glad,” he whispers, resting his chin on Daehyun’s shoulder.

“If you really want to make it… just make one copy since we live together.”

“I want one for myself, and a few more to give my relatives.” Daehyun hums. “But alright. Let’s start with one first.”

“We just need one. No one’s going to read it. Don’t waste your hard work.”

“They will. I’ll ask them what they think about it. And I won’t sugarcoat it. Then, I’ll make more of your other books so people can read them too.”

Daehyun’s voice reeks of a naivety Youngjae once held so direly. But from Daehyun’s lips, it spins out as an innocent hope that lets Youngjae dream just a bit.

Youngjae amusedly scoffs and brushes their lips. Daehyun catches him with a deeper kiss.

“Don’t do that,” Youngjae sighs, ruffling Daehyun’s hair. He lies back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling.

“Do you think there’s any value to a book that’s never read?” Youngjae speaks thoughtfully.

“Of course there is.”

“But storytellers are who they are because of their audience. What’s a storyteller if he has no one to tell his stories to?” Youngjae muses.

“Well…” Daehyun ponders for a moment. “You’re telling the story to yourself. There’s a reason why you wrote it, even if you think there isn’t.”

He gathers his supplies strewn across the floor and his fingers rattle across the keyboard. He pulls up a more advanced book-binding tutorial.

Youngjae stares at him while he concentrates on the instructions listed. His tummy flutters with butterflies and all he can do is marvel at how cliched the feeling is, yet it bristles within him like an intoxication for infinities to come.

“What do you want for dinner?” Youngjae asks.

“Prawn noodles. The one you cooked last week was great.”

“You said it was salty, though.”

“Yeah, but it was good. Maybe a little less salt?”

“Mm, okay,” Youngjae breathes, admiring how the sunrise and sunset stitches together to form Daehyun’s skin. With some eagerness, Youngjae tumbles off to bed and heads to the kitchen.

Dinner is an affair of lazing on the couch watching movies, reminiscent of the times they were just friends. They make jokes about the exaggerated sob stories of some contestants from a singing contest and they bicker over how Daehyun always forgets to put his worn clothes in the laundry basket.

Later, Youngjae kisses Daehyun for a longer time than expected. Daehyun reads the mood after a minute, gingerly pressing Youngjae into the couch. He undresses Youngjae sloppily and scuttles off halfway to get the lube. His fingers reach in deep and Youngjae arches against the cushions in sheepishness. Daehyun watches his expressions like it’s their first time.

Youngjae spreads his legs further to accommodate Daehyun, pulling him down close to hear his strained breaths. Moaning softly every time Daehyun thrusts, he grasps Daehyun’s face and thumbs his jawline, both gazing deep into each other’s eyes.

As an author, Youngjae knows the hypocrisy he writes—of fairy tale romance, while inwardly questioning if true love can honestly last forever. People flock to stories about bursting passion overcoming hardships for the happy ever after. He’s indulged in his fair share of dreamy novels. While none of his break-ups were harsh, it was natural for him to wonder if the fervour will always fizzle out into just contentment—settling for now.

It’s been a while since his heart pounded upon hearing Daehyun was coming over. He doesn’t tense up and fret over his appearance as much, nor does he feel utterly winded anymore when Daehyun brushes their fingers. In a sanctuary of familiarity, his infatuation has simmered into comfortableness.

But the feelings do come back every once in a while. When Daehyun gets him flowers, when Daehyun calls him to check if he ate, when Daehyun’s sleeping and he somehow looks breathtaking. It comes and goes as reminders of what things still are.

Daehyun wipes away the white over Youngjae’s stomach and they take a shower together. In bed, Youngjae writes a diary entry for today in the notebook Daehyun made for him.

“Bangkok was really hot when I visited in March. It went up to 40°C.” Daehyun remarks as he surfs the net on his phone.

“Wow. How did you survive?”

“I brought a mini fan with me everywhere I went. It was worth it, though. Bangkok’s really vibrant.” He gets up and takes his laptop. “Let me show you the photos I took.”

Youngjae browses through Daehyun’s photos as a small storm brews outside. Daehyun scoots under the covers with him, rambling about each place he visited.

 

\--

 

On the bus, Youngjae clasps the red lunchbox to keep it from bouncing off his lap. In his tote bag sits a packet of homemade chocolate cookies (out of shape) and a bottle of iced herbal tea.

The journey breezes past grey and square buildings, the streets quieter with the morning crowd all assuming their places in the office. Youngjae clasps tight on his bag.

At twelve-thirty, Youngjae waits by a beam in Daehyun’s company building. He peeks up every once in a while and finally spots Daehyun emerging from the elevator. Daehyun’s gaze flickers around before finally landing on Youngjae.

A beat of hesitance crosses his face, and then the courage washes it away into a smile that makes him look like a lovesick boy breathing flowers. He strides over with firm steps.

“Hey,” he takes the bag, chuckling at its contents. “Is this poison?”

“Yeah,” is all Youngjae can churn out.

They eat at the cafeteria in a secluded corner as Daehyun shoves his mouth with fish. It’s a little too salty, Youngjae knows, but Daehyun still eats it merrily.

“This is a thousand times better than the crap they serve at the cafeteria,” Daehyun sighs with contentment. Chatter settles around them innocently as the workers pass by, ties grey and high-heels loud.

Youngjae nudges over the iced herbal tea. “Drink this. The physician said it’s good for your bones.”

Daehyun takes a sip. “Oh, it’s sweet. Did you brew this just for me?”

“Mm.”

Daehyun melts into a lovely smile. “I’ll drink it finish.”

 

\--

 

After 6 years, Youngjae quits his job as an erotica ghostwriter. It’s liberating to shatter a routine so ingrained into his bones that he loathed, all because his idealistic self wanted to reconcile the gap between what he loved and what he needed. He feels apologetic for mangling his passion by forcibly monetising it all these years, but at least he’s finally came to his senses.

Daehyun remarked it was hard for him to let go. Youngjae made one bad decision and his refusal to give up all that he invested into it made him continue to push on. Past costs and gains shouldn’t be factored into a decision for the future, like a wonderful relationship gone wrong.

Perhaps it was desperation that made it so difficult to walk away. He found comfort in the certainty of a hardship rather than the fearsome uncertainty of possibly worse.

Now, maybe it’s because of Daehyun that he thinks a bit more thoroughly since he thinks for two. If he truly wants to give his share to their home, then it’d make more sense to find a job outside.

He unlocks the door with a broad smile and hooks the keys on the wall. Daehyun is lounging on the couch, watching the  drama.

“I got you the bun you wanted.” Youngjae tosses meat floss bun to Daehyun who barely catches it.

“Thanks.” Daehyun tilts his head. He has one leg lazily slung over the back of the sofa. “You didn’t buy anything? Then why’d you go down?”

Youngjae squirms as he chooses his words, happiness bubbling within him. Daehyun shifts over to make space for him on the couch.

“I went down for a job interview.”

Daehyun blinks. “What?”

“I went down for an interview to work as a cashier at Elliot Bookstore, the one beside Injeon Coffee,” Youngjae elaborates.

Daehyun spends a moment processing Youngjae’s words. He sits up. “You just went down for an interview?”

“Yeah.” Youngjae grins. “They accepted me. I thought they wouldn’t, since I don’t have much job experience.”

Daehyun parts his lips. Gradually, a frown finds its way onto his face, the peevishness difficult to miss in his eyes.

“What the hell? You didn’t even tell me. No, you didn’t even ask me what I thought.” His voice hardens along with his expression.

“It’s no big deal. It’s just a part-time job. I’ll only be working a few hours per week on the weekdays,” Youngjae assures, biting his lip as the disbelief doubles in Daehyun’s irritated look. He hadn’t informed Daehyun about his decision, partially because he knew Daehyun wouldn’t allow him to get a job.

“You getting a job is not a big deal?” Daehyun repeats, the incredulity growing at a concerning rate in his voice.

“Like I said, it’s just a few hours per week,” Youngjae softly returns. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to stop me.”

Daehyun heaves and runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t want you to get a job because you don’t need to. You’re doing it to pay the bills and it feels like you don’t treat this as your home. It’s like you’re renting the place.”

“It’s not like that. It’s because this is my home that I want to contribute,” Youngjae explains apologetically.

“But _why?_ ” Daehyun raises his voice in exasperation. “I told you. I can handle it. I don’t need you wasting your time working when it’s not worth it.”

His words shrivel. “Are you not happy with things? Do you want to buy something? If you wanted to, you should have just asked. I gave you access to my bank account. _Our_ bank account. You can use it for whatever you want, I told you before. I’m not going to stop you.”

“I don’t have stuff to buy,” Youngjae stresses.

“Then why are you doing this?”

“I just want to give my share. I don’t want you to be the only one working while I’m there lazing around and leeching off you.” Youngjae curls his fingers. “I’m sorry, okay? I’ve been thinking about it for some time and while I was at the bookstore today, I asked and things took off from there. You were angry about the intern’s mess when you came home and I didn’t want to upset you further-”

“And this doesn’t upset me more? You didn’t even tell me,” Daehyun breathes, indignation and upset coursing through his words. “I’ve already told you so many times. I’ll take care of you. Do you not trust me? Why are you hiding things from me?”

“Daehyun,” Youngjae whispers. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t think it’d be such a big deal.”

“If I quit my job and got a new one, and I told you only after, do you think it’s not a big deal too?” Daehyun rubs his forehead and releases a hefty, piqued sigh. “It’s like you can’t stand the idea of depending on me. Am I that unreliable to you that you’re scared?”

“No! I’ve never thought that!” Youngjae blurts in annoyance.

“Then why are you so insistent on getting a damn job?” Daehyun bristles. The anger withers into hurt. “I’ll take care of you. You don’t have to do this. You didn’t have to.”

He gets up and grabs his windbreaker. “Whatever,” he exhales in frustration. “Just do what you want.”

He swipes his wallet and phone. “I’m going out for a walk,” he mutters, swiftly shutting the door behind him.

Youngjae’s shoulders slump and the guilt churns nauseatingly in his guts. He buries his face in his hands and heaves, tearing apart all the steps that lead to now. He should have told Daehyun from the start, but something compelled him to seize the moment today when the staff had asked him if he was interested in the position. He felt so autonomous at that moment, like it was the first decision in years he made. Even if it was an opportunity he couldn’t have passed up, he shouldn’t have lied about going down to get groceries just because Daehyun was irate at an intern that messed up his submissions.

He would have felt betrayed if Daehyun had done this to him. Youngjae lies back against the couch as the misery chews at his ribs, some worry lingering in the back of his mind. He checks the clock. It’s nine, so it’s not too late.

This is the first time Daehyun has walked out on him. They’ve fought before over stupid things but never has Daehyun done something so drastic.

Silence stagnates within the four walls of a new home Youngjae has come to love as theirs. He obsessively chides himself for his screw-up as he waits for Daehyun to return.

Youngjae falls asleep on their bed while waiting, a side-effect of fresh remorse. Some hours later, he wakes up to rain battering against the window frame and a warmth by his side. Daehyun is facing away from him without the blanket.

Tucking Daehyun in, Youngjae puts on socks for Daehyun since his feet get cold easily. He irons Daehyun’s dress shirt for work and goes back to bed.

Youngjae wakes up to the absent sound of the alarm and Daehyun’s arms wound tight around his waist. Breathe in, breathe out, the routine of inhales and exhales stain Youngjae’s hair.

Daehyun sighs. He rubs Youngjae’s stomach absentmindedly, feeling flesh and fabric.

“Daehyun?” Youngjae blearily murmurs.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Daehyun’s voice is small and hesitant. He’s already dressed even though he usually wakes up at this time.

Daehyun lets go momentarily, but quickly, he holds Youngjae once more.

“Sorry,” it takes him a few seconds to find the correct time and apologise. “Sorry for yelling at you. You can go get a job. I won’t stop you.”

“Sorry for getting mad at you,” he whispers.

Youngjae turns over. “Why are you saying sorry?” Sadness trails the ends of his words. “It’s my fault. You know that. I should have told you at least.”

“Still, I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry for things that aren’t your fault.” Youngjae sits up and ruffles his own hair tiredly. “Have you eaten? Why’d you wake up so early?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Daehyun’s fingers twist around Youngjae’s shirt like a lost child.

They stand at the balcony, watching as the city wakes up to coffee and fast footsteps. Daehyun munches on the sandwich Youngjae made while they wait for the sunrise.

Glimpsing over, Youngjae notices the way Daehyun’s fingers are curved over the side of his lips, like accommodating an imaginary cigarette. He scoots closer.

“Sorry,” Youngjae breathes, fog materialising in the cold dawn. “I always think it’s unfair that you do so much for us while I don’t. When I was at the shop, I mentioned their sign and the clerk asked me if I was interested. I said yes and suddenly I’ve got an interview and everything.”

“Why are you upset that I’m the one paying the bills?” Daehyun exhales, slinging his arms over the balcony railings. “You always think you’re being a burden but you’re not.”

“It’s not only that. The main thing is that I want to do something for us too. I’m not finding a job so I have a back-up plan or something.”

Daehyun brushes his hair back as his tie dangles over the railings. “I don’t know,” He sighs, remaining quiet for a long time. “I don’t want things to change.”

“It won’t. I’m only working at most twenty hours per week. I’ll try to keep the weekends free and work while you’re working. I promise,” Youngjae assures. He curls his fingers. “Sorry.”

Daehyun smiles. “You’re going to make a lot of friends there,” he says softly.

“How would you know?”

“Because you’re the kind of person that makes friends easily.” He leans back and straightens himself, checking his watch. “I better get ready.”

Daehyun leaves Youngjae alone on the balcony. Youngjae follows him out belatedly and waits in the living room.

As Daehyun pulls up his black socks, Youngjae speaks. “Junhong wants to meet me this Saturday for lunch. He wants to see our house.”

“Your brother? Sure, I’ll go out, then.” He gets his wallet and thumbs through his bills. “How much do you need? You guys can order food up.”

Youngjae squirms. “I was hoping you could join us.”

Daehyun immediately pauses and blinks at Youngjae.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” Youngjae hurriedly says. “I’ve just always wanted to introduce you to him, and I thought it’d be a good opportunity. I could cook something and we could eat together at home.”

Daehyun licks his lips, rising from the sofa. Some nervousness glistens behind his pupils.

“Alright,” he decides after a prolonged moment. He nods as if slowly affirming his choice. “Lunch, right?”

“Yup.” Youngjae bounces up from the couch with a brimming grin he desperately tries to hide. “Are you sure? You don’t have to. Really.”

As Daehyun observes Youngjae, he dissolves into an amused smile and messes up Youngjae’s hair. “I want to, kid.”

In a few, Daehyun leaves for work, brushing lips with Youngjae. Youngjae doesn’t notice the yellowing notebook Daehyun takes along from Youngjae’s shelf.

Unable to fall back asleep, Youngjae goes out to the café to write. Every now and then, he lets the scenery of passing people distract him. He maps out each stranger’s quirk and wonders about going up to any of them in hopes of something. Dark eye circles, morning trains, Seoul where the country boys stand in marvel. Something about the city enchants him so much, especially in the comforting overlap of night and day. That precise moment where the world is just about to wake up but you’re a little faster, so you’re left all alone for those hours before the city starts running.

The words tremble beneath his fingers in anticipation, those he’d like to scribble into a fresh sheet of paper instead of onto a keyboard. He thinks of a world where morning chases away the crush of the shadow people, those unknown to humans. A shadow girl takes shelter in a human boy’s silhouette and enjoys her time in the sun more than she should, falling in love with the light.

Youngjae calls Daehyun at a quarter to one, accompanying him through his lunch break. At 4PM, Daehyun sends him a text message asking what Junhong fancies. He frets over gift ideas and stubbornly insists on getting a present, even though Youngjae tells him Junhong isn’t worth the effort at all.

After work, Daehyun drags Youngjae out to go gift shopping.

 

\--

 

On Friday, Daehyun busks by the train station while Youngjae sits beside him with a notepad. Instead of writing, Youngjae fades into the chords raining from Daehyun’s fingers. His songs are like sand that dents with the noise and complements the waves of the crowd.

Youngjae glances around the platform, soaking into the busy affairs of a weekday. It’s wondrous to think of every passing person as more than just a face. To those walking by, Daehyun and he are probably the same—just another piece of the backdrop.

Daehyun plays a few new melodies, some upbeat, some lonely. To Youngjae’s surprise, Daehyun tugs off his mask halfway and begins singing several songs. His voice is warm and grainy.

One song sticks with Youngjae. The notes are breezy as they wash into the ambience, yet the words are heavy footsteps.

 _I’d like to keep us in this small, little world of just us._ The smell of cigarettes catches their hair as a haggard man passes by.

 _So no one can bother us. So things will never change._ Daehyun strums fast as another sea of people flush by. _So things will be the same._

 _I’m always scared to lose what we have, to lose you._ Youngjae shuts his eyes and indulges in ripples of Daehyun’s voice.

_And selfishly, I wish you felt that way too._

The harmony recedes as a strong backwash. Daehyun slouches and rests his guitar against his chest, surveying his earnings for the night.

“That song was good. What’s it called?”

“Really? I thought you’d find it plain because the lyrics are simple.” Daehyun gathers the crumpled notes and makes a face when one of them turns out sticky.

“Simple doesn’t necessarily mean it’s plain,” Youngjae remarks. “I really like the way you sang it.”

“Thanks.” Daehyun dangles the grimy two-dollar bill in front of Youngjae’s face, earning a yelp from the other man.

“Stop being an asshole.” Youngjae backs away out of precaution while Daehyun guffaws. “Hey, what’s the song called?”

“It doesn’t have a title. Not yet, I guess.” Daehyun puts the bag of earnings away and places back his guitar.

“Wait. Did you write it?”

Daehyun shrugs and squeezes Youngjae’s thigh, rising. “Let’s get some ramen before we go home.”

 

\--

 

The day after, Junhong meets Daehyun for the first time. Although Daehyun is awkward initially, he eases into Junhong’s earnestness till he’s comfortably cracking jokes by the next hour. Being a good brother-in-law, Junhong shares the most embarrassing stories of Youngjae that he can think of, including the time he got his face stuck to a plunger and cried. Youngjae stomps on his toes underneath the table.

Thrilled by Daehyun’s gift (a limited edition watch), Junhong brazenly announces that his older brother doesn’t deserve Daehyun. He promises to visit again soon despite Youngjae cussing at him to never come back.

On Monday, Youngjae starts his first shift at the bookstore. It’s a quaint shop by a café, a perfect combination for the bookworm who wants a change in scenery from nights reading in bed. Unfortunately, not enough people take advantage of this combo, leaving the bookstore empty frequently.

The store is manned by a middle-aged woman, Younha, and her twenty-three-year-old nephew, Jaebum. It was her son’s suggestion to get another staff member so they’d have an easier time stocking the shelves, despite the little clientele. Youngjae learns they’re quite well-to-do and that it had always been Younha’s dream to open her own bookshop, being an avid fiction reader.

The shop is cosy with its vintage décor, offering a small lounge with bean bags for customers to read their purchases. Younha offers them biscuits and tea when it rains.

Jaebum is easy-going and has a crude sense of humour that reminds Youngjae of his college roommate, Jongup. He majors in computing and much like Daehyun, hasn’t read a book since a decade ago. There’s another part-timer named Hayi who takes the days where Youngjae isn’t helping out.

Youngjae spends the day rearranging books, gushing over classics with Younha and leaving suggestions on what to bring in. He leaves, already anticipating his next work day.

 

\--

 

At the beach, Youngjae falls asleep under the shade of their umbrella, seafoam trying hard to reach his toes. Daehyun buries him in sand and doesn’t get an ice-cream for him.

As payback, Youngjae dunks sand into Daehyun’s shorts.

 

* * *

hello! there's one more chapter to go, hehe~ i've already finished the next (last) chapter, but i decided i'll post it maybe five days from today, since both updates are 8000 words each. ;o; i had feedback before that sometimes my updates can be very heavy and its a little hard to read

thank you so much for all the love and kindness up till now! i promise i'll reply all your lovely comments as soon as ican (DEFINITELY, I WILL)


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: the previous chapter, chap 10, was updated on 26th May (6 days ago)! you may have missed it ><

 

**[open-ended](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuC2sc-1CMU&list=PLflKpEjRZwlfbseXgO4AlUJqjzOnGqPKe) **

_Daehyun/Youngjae_

 

 

For the first time in years, Youngjae finds himself trapped in a schedule that dictates what hours he gives away. It’s enjoyable despite him having feared dreary routines since his school days, needing to put his ideas on hold for school work. He tries to secure the weekday morning shifts which the other part-timers thankfully avoid because of school. He starts his day at nine and gets off at three, leaving ample time for him to cook dinner for Daehyun and welcome him home.

More often than not, Jaebum or Younha are with him and they chat whilst the passers-by pay no heed to the modest little bookshop. Other times, Youngjae spends his shift alone, reorganising the books the patrons have browsed and waiting for another curious person to pop by.

While Youngjae does have less time to write, Youngjae thinks it’s better this way. Biding his own time has never worked for him and only makes him bargain with night and day since no one can tell him otherwise. _Tomorrow_ , he promises to nobody, so the deadline shifts till even Youngjae is sick of it.

Now, the limited time bestows him a better sense of urgency. Besides, Younha allows him to do his own work when the shop is empty, as long as he doesn’t abuse the privilege.

Homemade earl grey tea simmers beneath Youngjae’s nose as he sits at the counter, watching rain crawl over the display glass. Jaebum slots back some books while Younha rests on a stool in the corner. Today, Youngjae’s working the afternoon shift, so he ends work at nine.

“I still can’t believe how much olives you got.” Jaebum shudders. “Who the hell gets olives at Subway?”

“Enough people. That’s why it’s still a topping,” Youngjae easily returns, cheeky grin drawn over his lips.

He checks his phone, waiting for Daehyun to reply his message as to whether he’s eaten dinner. It’s cold because of the downpour and the reckless autumn gales.

“You even add tomatoes and mayonnaise. Disgusting freak.”

“He’s such a hater, isn’t he? How’d you stand him for the past twenty years?” Youngjae sighs to Younha, the lady muffling back a soft laugh. “Get over it, Jaebum. You’re the weird ass that eats tuna.”

“Tuna is good. You guys have shit taste.”

“Doesn’t Hayi like olives too?” Younha mentions.

Youngjae shakes his head. “Wow, Jaebum. Insulting women behind their backs.”

“Shut the hell up. You’ve seen her, like, once?” Jaebum drawls.

The bell by the door jingles. A man clad in a thick coat enters with his umbrella drawn, carefully weaving through the narrow aisles. Youngjae’s heart leaps as Jaebum calls out, “Welcome!”

Daehyun offers a small smile to Jaebum and turns to Youngjae. “Hey.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Youngjae bubbles, getting off the stool. “Have you eaten?”

“Yeah. I bought you some chicken skewers.” Daehyun lifts up the bag of white takeaway boxes.

Younha and Jaebum regard Daehyun curiously. “Sorry to disturb. I’m Youngjae’s friend,” he introduces. “Heard he was working so I stopped by.”

“Aww, you’re not disturbing us,” Younha assures kindly. She glances to the clock. “Youngjae, why don’t you go first? Don’t keep your friend waiting.”

“But it’s only eight-thirty,” Youngjae remarks.

Daehyun cuts in hastily. “Oh, it’s alright. I can wait for Youngjae half an hour more.”

“Don’t worry about it! We’ve rarely got customers in the evening! Youngjae, leave first. You’re not needed,” Younha offers. She struggles to push Youngjae away from the counter with her petite frame, making Jaebum chortle.

“Ouch. You’re mean,” Youngjae jests. He thanks Younha and bids them goodbye, exiting the store in a burst of wind.

He jovially grins up at Daehyun and deliberately shifts closer so their hand can brush. “You should have told me you were stopping by.” His cheeks tingle in a coy, silly happiness.

“I wanted to surprise you.” Daehyun takes out the extra scarf from his bag and wraps it around Youngjae’s neck. “I knew you didn’t bring your scarf. When will you listen, kid?”

Daehyun looks around and quickly squeezes Youngjae’s hand, pulling him towards their apartment block. “Seems like you get along well with them. Your boss is nice.”

“She is, isn’t she? She keeps feeding us leftover cookies that she baked for her daughter. Jaebum doesn’t deserve her as an aunt.”

Daehyun chuckles. “The shop seems kind of overstaffed, kid.”

“It is. Younha wasn’t supposed to come but she was excited about the new books we were bringing in.”

“She really loves her shop,” Daehyun comments, stopping by a lamppost. He adjusts the hood of Youngjae’s jacket and his palm brushes against Youngjae’s cheek. His smile lines are extremely prominent underneath the light.

“Have you been putting on the hand cream I gave you? Your hands are so dry.” Youngjae slings over his backpack and rummages through it, tossing out the moisturiser he always keeps in his bag for Daehyun.

“I used it last night and forgot to bring it with me.” Daehyun rubs cream over his skin and grabs Youngjae’s hands, rubbing some on for him. He takes out a chicken skewer for Youngjae.

“How was work?” Youngjae asks contentedly through munches.

Daehyun winds an arm around Youngjae’s waist as a breeze messes up their hair. “The usual.”

 

\--

 

“Ordering the pages is easier than I thought. There’s applications out there that help you do it,” Daehyun murmurs as he scrolls through Youngjae’s softcopy version of _How We Breathe_. He got lost in reading it halfway and took longer than he should have to organise the pages.

“Are you going to print it out today?” Youngjae asks, suppressing his guilty excitement. He had been feeling a bit down as his mother had called, hoping Youngjae would come back for dinner this weekend.

“Yeah. I already bought the good paper.” Daehyun gets up and proudly takes one sheet from the large stack on his desk. “Just arrived today.”

Youngjae traces the texture with a finger and melts into an amazed simper. “Book paper.”

“Yeah. Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

Youngjae watches Daehyun check the pages once more, heart rising in awe at the thought of his words printed. He kisses his cheek and rests his head on Daehyun’s shoulder.

“Thanks a lot, Daehyun,” Youngjae whispers. “I’m really happy. Honestly.”

He misses Daehyun’s blush.

 

\--

 

Evening falls quick on Sunday while the leaves wither, each drop signalling a day closer to winter. Daehyun leans against the counter as Youngjae chops the tofu. A bag of kimchi lies by the fridge, one that they made together last week.

“It’s good to intern at a company that isn’t too big. You get more experience because they give you better work to do. Big companies look nice on paper but job interviewers know you just shred paper every day. Smaller companies tend to give you nice-sounding job titles even though you do the same shit.” Daehyun slurps at his coke.

Youngjae does a rock-on sign. “Stay tuned for more life hacks from Daehyun after the commercial break.”

“Shut up.”

As they wallow in a serene silence, Youngjae notices Daehyun staring at his butt after a while. He squints at Daehyun in exasperation.

“Eyes up here, bastard. No wonder you went quiet.”

“Because I’m in awe,” Daehyun jokes, skin beautifully creasing by his eyes. He inhales the scent of kimchi delightedly while Youngjae stir-fries the beef.

“Man, I can’t wait for the tofu stew. It’s getting cold quickly this year.”

“Yeah. The winds are crazy too. I seriously can’t believe such a huge tree fell.” Youngjae feeds Daehyun a spoonful of anchovy broth.

“Tastes good. A little more salt, maybe,” Daehyun suggests. “And that tree was probably already rotting.”

Youngjae sprinkles in more salt and lets Daehyun taste it. “Better?”

“Perfect.”

Youngjae cracks in two eggs and they eat in the living room. After dinner, they laze on the floor in quietness while Youngjae checks his phone for emails. He sighs when he sees no new ones. He then scrolls through the ad-hoc assignment offers online, bookmarking the ones he can accommodate.

“Can I talk to you about something?”

Youngjae lifts his head at Daehyun’s sudden words. He instantly puts down his phone. “Yeah, of course.”

Daehyun licks his lips. “Uh, one of my colleagues wants to meet me for dinner on Sunday. I’m not sure if I should go.”

Youngjae crawls over. “Are you close to that person?”

“Used to. We entered the company at the same time and he just moved from Gwangju. He—Himchan—was my closest friend before… you know.”

Daehyun scratches the nape of his neck. “Yesterday, I was at the pantry and he suddenly asked me if we could go out for dinner. Said he wants to show me photos of how big his daughter is now.”

“Do you want to go?” Youngjae questions gently, fingers ghosting over Daehyun’s wrist.

Daehyun shrugs. “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him in a long time, besides for work.” He reaches for the remote and turns on the television.

“It’s just the two of you, right?” Youngjae says. “It wouldn’t hurt to go.”

“You know, his daughter was three when I last saw her. She’d be in primary school by now.” Daehyun chuckles. “Seoyeon used to hug my leg like a koala whenever I visited. She’d cry if Himchan tried to pry her off.”

“Oh my god, that’s so cute.”

“She really is. I wonder how big she is now.”

Youngjae kneads Daehyun’s hand comfortingly. “You haven’t talked to that colleague in a while, right? You can try it out. It’s a one-time thing, anyway.” He broaches the topic with care.

“It’s kind of shameful, I guess,” Daehyun heaves. “I’ve been ignoring him and everyone else for the past few years. Usually, I’d turn him down, but I really haven’t seen his daughter in a long time.”

“Did you used to visit Himchan often?”

“Sometimes.” Daehyun absentmindedly plays with his fingers. “Himchan was overseas when his wife’s water broke. I was the one who sent her to the hospital.”

Youngjae bats his lashes slowly, shoulders falling at the sight of Daehyun’s murky irises. Daehyun spends a long moment pondering over the wilted years.

“I think you should go,” Youngjae decides firmly. “There’s nothing shameful about it. He reached out first, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, but I’ve always been pushing him away. And everyone else.” Daehyun lies down on the floor and crosses his arms behind his head.

“You feel bad. But you shouldn’t be ashamed. They’ll understand.” Youngjae brushes Daehyun’s hair back.

Daehyun sighs. “I’m scared too. It’ll be awkward.”

“First steps are like that,” Youngjae optimistically persuades. “Try it out if you want to, okay? I’ll be there if it doesn’t go well. I’ll buy ice-cream.”

“You talk like I’m going on a blind date.” Daehyun rolls his eyes in amusement. He sits up and collects their bowls.

“I’ll think about it.”

 

\--

 

After a lengthy night of contemplation, Daehyun decides to go for dinner with Himchan. They eat at a cheap diner they once frequented, some stiffness to their conversation. The drinks wear down Daehyun’s cautious reflex to each of Himchan’s questions and they talk a little more like they used to years ago.

Daehyun comes back inebriated, collapsing into Youngjae’s arms at the bus-stop below their block. He blurts that he’s always wanted a daughter like Seoyeon—to pamper her and give her the world. His lifelong dream was to have a family and children in a house too big for only him. Just once, he wants to wait at the altar with his pounding heart in his throat.

Youngjae takes a piece of Daehyun’s blue so he does not have to shoulder it all by himself. Youngjae spends the night reading up on marriage and adoption for their kind, only to feel more miserable.

The next morning, Daehyun apologises profusely, guilt marring his eyes. Youngjae waves him off and pretends he doesn’t wish he could give Daehyun better.

 

\--

 

Two weeks later, Junhong sends over a present for Daehyun. It’s a maroon wallet which Junhong’s wife picked out. Attached is a card that says:

_STRICTLY NO RETURNS._

_My brother, I mean._

Youngjae sincerely considers trashing the gift. On the other hand, Daehyun is elated with present, instantly changing out his wallet for the new one.

“I thought you hated trifold wallets,” Youngjae grumbles, helping Daehyun transfer his cards over ot the new wallet. “There are fewer pockets.”

Daehyun tosses out more of his credit cards. “I don’t mind.”

He inspects the wallet mirthfully. “Hey, tell me truthfully. Does it mean your brother likes me?”

“Yeah, unless you think he poisoned the wallet. Why do you care about what Junhong thinks? His opinions are worthless,” Youngjae bluntly jabs.

Daehyun chortles. “Of course I want your brother to like me. He’s your brother.”

“Are you dating him or me?” Youngjae gasps, dramatically feigning offense.

Daehyun taps Youngjae’s head with his new wallet. “If he likes me, it means he thinks I’m good for you.”

“Yeah. Too good for me, apparently,” Youngjae snorts.

Daehyun purses his lips. “Even you agree, wow. Should I leave you?”

Youngjae cocks his brows like posing a challenge. Daehyun folds his lips to shut himself up.

 

\--

 

_“You came here to apologise not because you’re sorry. You’re looking for redemption. The guilt’s killing you and that’s why you came here today. How do I know?”_

_She nears him with a concoction of sympathy and disgust, some disbelief and disappointment—in herself or him, even she doesn’t know._

_“Because you came here expecting forgiveness. You’re getting frustrated and mad at me for not forgiving you, as if I’m obliged to fucking forgive you because you dragged your sorry ass out here and apologised. Let me make this clear: I do not fucking owe you forgiveness. You can feel like shit for the rest of your life; I don’t give a fuck.”_

Pleased, Youngjae pens down his last word while Daehyun plays a game on his laptop. Youngjae yawns and slips under the covers, pulling on Daehyun’s shirt for him to sleep. Daehyun occasionally accompanies Youngjae into the middle of the night, finding random games to play online.

“Ten more minutes,” Daehyun mumbles.

“Aren’t you going out tomorrow?” Youngjae reminds, words muffled by the pillow.

“Yeah. Bowling with Himchan.” Daehyun groans when he loses the game. He finally concedes and shuts the laptop, joining Youngjae under the blanket.

“Just you two?”

“Another colleague might be coming. Sunhwa. You remember her, right?” Daehyun stirs and rests his arm on the curve of Youngjae’s torso. “Don’t be jealous.”

“Jealous? I’d be the happiest guy on earth if someone wanted to take you away,” Youngjae huffs. Inwardly, warmth simmers in his tummy at the thought of Daehyun reconciling with more of his friends.

“Are you coming home for dinner?”

“Mm. Let’s order deep fried chicken. I’m really craving it,” Daehyun mumbles.

“You’re going to get more pimples.” Youngjae snivels when Daehyun lightly bumps their heads. “We should eat and watch that horror movie you were talking about.”

“You’d fling your chicken at the screen. Coward.”

“I’ll throw it at your face.” Youngjae cups Daehyun’s cheek, examining the acne along his chin. “We’ll eat lighter meals the day after. Congee?”

“Okay. Thanks.” Daehyun instinctively leans into Youngjae’s palm. “Do you think my pimples make me look ugly?”

“No. You always look ugly.” Youngjae squeals when Daehyun prods his sides.

“Then why are you dating me?”

“Because your dick is huge,” Youngjae releases an exaggerated moan.

Daehyun’s jaw slackens. “Yoo Youngjae, for god’s sake,” Daehyun groans in disbelief. He shoves Youngjae’s head back while Youngjae brashly laughs.

Several minutes pass. Daehyun reaches down to squeeze Youngjae’s behind. “I’m horny now,” he says.

Youngjae shifts away. “Screw off.”

 

\--

 

Saturday cracks in a billow of cloudy skies, a bleak paleness adorning the horizon. Youngjae blearily sits up and taps the alarm clock. He sniffles when he notices Daehyun gone, searching around for him till he notices the closed bathroom door.

Youngjae lugs himself out of bed and quickly washes up. He makes some bulgogi for an early lunch, frying the beef as he stuffs his mouth with a piece of bread.

Youngjae cocks his head back when Daehyun enters the kitchen. “I’m making bulgogi for lunch. Anything else you want to eat?” He garbles between bites.

“It’s okay. Thanks.”

Youngjae swivels his head back, adding some salt and sauce. He grabs the spinach from the fridge and washes it in the sink.

Out of nowhere, Daehyun slips his arms around Youngjae’s waist, nudging the shorter man into his chest. He nestles his nose behind Youngjae’s ear and kisses softly.

“I love you,” he murmurs, pressing close to feel Youngjae more intimately. He repeats a few times in a quiet voice, “I love you.”

Youngjae instantly senses something amiss. He looks back in consternation. “Hey, is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Daehyun assures softly. He gazes into Youngjae’s eyes and naturally dissolves into a minuscule smile.

“I just wanted you to know, kid. No matter what… I’ll always love you.” The ever-present embarrassment is absent from his strained voice.

“You’re being corny. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.” Daehyun guides their lips together. He checks the time. “You have work today, right? I should visit my mother; it’s been a while. You said you had something for her?”

Youngjae bites his lip as he surveys Daehyun’s expression. He reluctantly drops the topic.

“Yeah, the chicken essence. My mother says it’s good for your blood pressure.” He takes the box from the shelf and hands it over.

Daehyun hums, “I wish I could tell her it was you who got this for her.”

“I don’t need the credit.” Youngjae curls his fingers. “Daehyun, are you really okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

Hours later, Youngjae leaves for work, still feeling unsettled. Daehyun seems distracted today but despite how much Youngjae tried to probe, he adamantly insists nothing is bothering him.

It’s nine-thirty by the time Youngjae closes up the shop. He called Daehyun an hour ago to ensure he was safe at home but he hurries back, anyway.

Youngjae’s shoulders drop in sheer relief when Daehyun answers the door. He seems alright—uninjured, still in one piece.

“Hi.” Just as Youngjae tugs off his shoes, Daehyun envelops him in a suffocating embrace, catching Youngjae off guard.

“Hey, kid.” His large hand threads through Youngjae’s hair as he buries his nose into Youngjae’s neck.

“Daehyun, what’s wrong?” Youngjae squirms out of Daehyun’s needy grasp and worriedly meets Daehyun’s eyes.

“Nothing. I’m just really happy to see you. Really, really happy,” Daehyun sighs.

Youngjae folds his lips. “You can tell me anything. You know that, right?” He starts tenderly.

“I know,” Daehyun chuckles warmly. He clasps Youngjae’s hand and nudges him towards the bathroom. “Go bathe. I bought some apple strudels and ice cream.”

After Youngjae’s shower, they sit on the bedroom floor and snack on their desserts. Youngjae discreetly steals a few peeks at Daehyun. At the very least, the unease from this morning has dissipated, though his behaviour is still odd. Daehyun is rarely ever explicit in his verbal displays of affection.

“How was work?” Daehyun begins, tone light.

“It was a bit boring having to man the store by myself for so long. A father brought his kid in and she nearly spilled her orange juice over our books.”

“Wow. Would Younha have killed you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen her angry before; she’s always so peaceful and kind.”

Youngjae finishes up one apple strudel. He asks, “What about you? How was your trip to your mother’s place?”

“It was good. She made lunch for me even though I told her I’d eat before coming. It’s a good thing you didn’t give me too much.”

“I had a feeling she would. All mothers are the same.”

Youngjae cautiously continues, “Anything else happened today?”

Daehyun takes a while to reply this question, chewing up his strudels and washing it down his stomach.

“I told my mother about us.”

Youngjae halts. He blinks once and then whips his head towards Daehyun with wide eyes. “Wait, what? Did you just say you told your mother about us?”

Daehyun nods without a word.

“Are you serious? What- why’d you do that? Are you nuts?” Youngjae splutters in stupefaction, rubbing his forehead as he tries again to process what spilled from Daehyun’s mouth.

“Did you seriously tell her we’re dating?”

“I can’t hide you from her forever,” Daehyun calmly reasons.

“I know that, but…” Youngjae drifts off queasily.

“What did she say?” His voice drops several decibels. Dread cramps his windpipe nauseatingly.

Daehyun leans back against the chest of drawers, deliberating over his words. “She went quiet when I told her I was dating a guy,” he confesses. “She asked for your name and I gave it to her. I told her you make me really happy.”

“She’s against these kind of things in the family, so I expected she’d ask me to break up with you. But she just said, _as long as you’re happy_ ,” Daehyun wheezes.

“Really?” Youngjae blurts. The knot of tension in his throat unwinds with a burst, but Youngjae still feels like vomiting.

“You’re not kidding? Are you lying to make me feel better?”

“I’m not,” Daehyun affirms. He stares into Youngjae’s eyes, fluttering his lashes slowly.

“I can tell my mother doesn’t like it. But she’s been really pleased that I look a lot happier, so I told her the truth about why. I guess it was enough reason to accept us.”

Youngjae’s gaze finds the floor. Guilt toils within his ribcage along with a contradictory relief. “Oh.”

Daehyun sighs and lays his head on Youngjae’s lap, seeking solace and warmth.

“I was really scared. I knew she’d definitely be disappointed in me, but I didn’t want to be forced to choose between you and her.”

“If that happens, you should obviously choose your mother. She raised you,” Youngjae scolds. “You can always find another girl; you’re handsome, you’ve got a good personality and you earn good money. You can’t find another mother.”

“It’s like you want me to break up with you, dumbass, ” Daehyun snorts in amusement. He reaches up to caress Youngjae’s face.

“I don’t think you know how much I need you,” he says it so softly that Youngjae strains to hear his words. He’s back to being embarrassed about showing affection—no more anxiousness and fright to scrub it away.

Youngjae lets out a faint wheeze. “Sometimes, I wish you bothered to see there are other options for you.”

“You really think there are? Because I don’t think so. Not at all,” Daehyun returns firmly.

He rolls over and rests against Youngjae’s stomach. “You have no idea how I felt before I met you. How much I changed because of you.”

“I know you love me, so you say things like that about how I should find someone else,” Daehyun murmurs, “but don’t.”

The bittersweet words sink into Youngjae’s skin. Youngjae delicately strokes Daehyun’s head.

“Okay.”

Later, Daehyun’s phone rings, almost rattling off the table. Daehyun shoots up once he notices it’s his mother.

He goes out to the balcony to talk while Youngjae watches in apprehension. He feels remorseful that he, of all people, had to be the one Daehyun chose. No proper job, no smarts, not a girl. He earnestly believes that if Daehyun had missed him that day, he would eventually have found someone else who could make him happy—happier, even. A week later, or a month, perhaps.

(Naively, Youngjae forgets the three years Daehyun spent drowning alone in sorrow.)

Daehyun emerges from the balcony and Youngjae straightens up, worried. He swallows in astonishment when Daehyun nervously holds out the phone.

“My mother wants to talk to you,” he breathes.

Youngjae nearly drops the phone as he receives it. “H-Hello?”

“Hello,” the reply comes belatedly, measured and low. “Your name is Youngjae?”

“Yes,” Youngjae blurts a little too loud, his hands clammy. Daehyun’s mother sounds just like his—exhausted, hoarse, too many years of unconditional love wearing down their voices.

Silence draws out over the phone. After a long while, Daehyun’s mother lets out a feeble exhale. “Please take good care of my son.”

 

\--

 

Snowfall catches their hair on a dense Saturday night, the river rippling behind them as Daehyun plays on his guitar. Couples stroll into the park every now and then, tugging on each other’s sleeves and gesturing to Daehyun on the bench. He’s using a pick because Youngjae was afraid he’d get a frostbite on his bare fingers.

A little girl scuttles up to Daehyun and plops in a few coins, running back to her mother. Daehyun smiles behind his black mask.

“It’s hard to play with a pick,” Daehyun complains. “I can’t play more complicated songs.”

“It’ll be harder to play when your fingers are frozen,” Youngjae drawls, slurping at his hot chocolate.

He chuckles under his breath when Daehyun starts his next song. As expected, more couples stop to listen, swaying to the firm strums and filling in the missing lyrics.

When Daehyun ends off, Youngjae inspects Daehyun’s earnings while Daehyun tunes his guitar for the following song.

“Wow, how about you just play Wonderwall for the rest of your life? You’d be rich.”

“I’m not trading my sanity for that.” Daehyun glances around and places his hand over Youngjae, interlocking their fingers. He shifts his guitar to block their hands.

“We should come out here when it’s midnight. Fewer people.”

“Or we could have sex at home.”

Daehyun parts his lips and lets go of Youngjae’s hand, burying his face into his palms with an exasperated grunt. “You _always_ ruin the mood. I feel like knocking you out.”

“You don’t want sex?”

Daehyun narrows his eyes.

Youngjae cutely puffs up his cheeks. “Play Wonderwall again.”

“No.”

After five more songs, they head home together with heads lowered, vigilantly watching for the bits of ice along the pavement.

“Yeah. He’s a really efficient and nice guy but he doesn’t trust others to do the work well, so he doesn’t delegate a lot of tasks. Our department always ends up being late on deadlines since he can’t finish everything.”

“Ouch. Is there anyone you guys can talk to about this?”

“Right now, we’re trying to talk to him about it. We told him he could always check our work but he’s still reluctant. If worst comes to worst, we’ll have to file a formal grievance.”

Fog materialises over Daehyun’s lips in the cool winter air. “Hope it doesn’t reach that point. He’s not a bad guy.”

“Maybe you guys can convince him to let you guys do the work, and then have him review it at intervals so he can make revisions along the way. I think he might be worrying that there’s not enough time after he checks to change what you guys have done.”

“Oh, good idea, kid. I should tell Yongguk and Hyosung tomorrow,” Daehyun mutters, making a mental note.

“Right. I wanted to ask. I was reading your story _Landfill_ on the bus today—”

Youngjae churns out an incomprehensible sound of flustered indignation. “Stop taking my stories! You didn’t even tell me.”

“I’m telling you now,” Daehyun laughs. “Anyway, I wanted to ask if it was a true story or if you were inspired by something like that in real life.”

“It’s not. Why?”

“The characters feel real. It’s not… straightforward. How do I explain it?” Daehyun muses as Youngjae sheepishly burrows himself into his scarf, listening carefully to Daehyun’s feedback.

“Remember that serial killer movie we watched? The guy was beaten by his blue-eyed sister so he goes around killing blue-eyed women. It’s straightforward and makes sense. _Landfill_ isn’t like that. At first I thought Ginger and Smoke were weird, since they were kind of unpredictable. I didn’t expect Smoke to follow her grandfather after he beat her.”

“But I like it. I thought about it and I think they’re like actual people,” Daehyun concludes. He used to stumble over what to say about Youngjae’s pieces, at most pointing out specific lines he fancies. But now, he teases out what exactly he likes and what he has questions about.

“Mm, I was writing with that in mind. Trying to make them as realistic as possible, that sometimes, we just do stuff because we feel like it, not because of our personality or what we’ve been through,” Youngjae confesses, pink tinging his cheeks.

“That’s interesting. Ginger reminds me of you.”

“She set her house on fire and beat her husband,” Youngjae deadpans.

“Is that not something you’d do?” Daehyun raises a brow, grinning broadly. “Oh god, I better not give you any ideas.”

They return home with the frost lining their cheeks. In a mess of comma splices and run-on sentences, they unwind into the mattress, kissing hard and touching deliriously. Youngjae clings on to Daehyun as he indulges in the cautious way Daehyun pushes in.

Youngjae’s nails run down Daehyun’s back as he begs softly for Daehyun to go faster. They press their foreheads together, hair matted with sweat, and Daehyun lifts Youngjae’s hips higher. They whisper sweet nothings they can only say as jokes beyond the bedroom.

Youngjae feels from the stain of their bedsheets and the cotton of Daehyun’s shirt to tanned, warm skin. Youngjae’s breaths thin out into whimpers and Daehyun reacts to every sound he makes. Close, closer, till he can hear every drop and high, every humiliating crack in Youngjae’s whines.

Carelessly, Daehyun searches for Youngjae’s hand beneath the sheets and twines their fingers. He moans by Youngjae’s ear and Youngjae flushes, immediately orgasming with a sharp jerk. Youngjae holds on to Daehyun still, giddy with too much pleasure and his knees trembling.

 

\--

 

It’s a lonesome Tuesday evening, leaves trailing across the sidewalk as men clutch at their hats. The bookstore is vacant; the last visitor was a young girl who came an hour ago. Youngjae doodles on a notepad while he brainstorms about his new novel. He occasionally misses writing his finished works, which may explain his reluctance to end some of his stories.

He sketches out a profile till Daehyun texts him. _Let’s go out on a date tonight. I’ll pick you up from work._

Youngjae bristles with warmth.

Night falls, nine o’clock blues simmering into the ambience. As Youngjae closes up the shop, Daehyun drives up to him.

“You forgot to eat your medicine this morning, didn’t you? I counted the tablets,” Youngjae chides as he swings in.

“Come on, I’m fine now. It’s just the flu.” Daehyun helps him with his backpack.

“You’re asking for it. It’s been just two days since you got your fever, idiot.”

Daehyun exits the car to place Youngjae’s bag in the backseat. “Stop nagging,” he drawls.

“Ungrateful. I’m saving your life here.”

“You’re really good at exaggerating, aren’t you?” Daehyun gets back into the car while Youngjae stretches himself comfortably. Youngjae halts when Daehyun hands him something pink.

“Here.” He holds out a bouquet of peonies.

“Where do you want to eat? Do you want Italian food? There’s this new restaurant that opened up somewhere; I can’t remember. Himchan told me the spaghetti’s good,” Daehyun starts rambling, as expected.

Gingerly, Youngjae takes the bouquet, staring at the pretty curls of petals. Daehyun picks up the tiny red box in his lap and gives it to Youngjae as well.

“This too,” he mumbles, gruff embarrassment chewing away at his voice. He speaks louder to cover his previous words. “Maybe we should eat something else. Are you in the mood for Western food? I don’t know any good places, though.”

“What’s this?” Youngjae wheezes. His heart palpitates at a dizzying ferocity and his hands tremble with sweet, sweet disbelief.

Youngjae carefully opens the box to find two diamond-encrusted rings, glimmering soft under the dim lamppost lighting. Within the silver bands, the corny phrase _D &Y_ is carved. Youngjae wants to groan at the cringeworthy initials but all he can feel is the flooding euphoria in his chest. It rises up till it threatens to bloom out of his lips like his confession to Daehyun years ago.

Sky blue, sunshine, beach sand between his fingers. Youngjae holds on tight to the box as he gawps at the rings, pieces of the seasons held within his hand. April in a burst of petals, July with the summer heat, September drifts between the maple leaves, December and snow by their feet. Youngjae wants to yell out just how much he loves Daehyun.

Finally, Daehyun faces him properly instead of acting like he had tossed a bag of laundry to Youngjae.

“I know we can’t get married,” Daehyun coughs, fingers absentmindedly squeezing the steering wheel. “But I thought of, uh, getting wedding rings for us. You don’t have to think of them that way if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Youngjae stares and stares, till he melts into a hearty, stupid laugh. Shutting the box, he grasps Daehyun’s face and kisses him deeply, leaving Daehyun dazed. When Youngjae pulls back, Daehyun chases after his lips like yearning for flowers.

“I want to put it on now,” Youngjae whispers, winded from awe and an unadulterated happiness. His head feels lost in the clouds like he'd been packaged a dream he fell into instantly.

Daehyun nods. They slip on the rings for each other, their altar a lemon-scented car with coupons for fried chicken in the glove box.

“Does it mean we’re married now? Was that a proposal?” Youngjae chortles, admiring the shine on his wedding band. “Did you seriously propose to me in a car while asking me if I wanted to eat spaghetti?”

“I knew I should have given it to you at home, shit,” Daehyun mutters.

“You would have said crap like that at home, anyway.” Youngjae slings his arms around Daehyun’s neck and brushes their noses, diving in for another kiss.

“Thank you,” Youngjae chortles, cheeks hurting from how thrilled he is. “I can’t believe you did this. You’re a dumbass, seriously. Thank you.”

“Don’t curse at me and thank me at the same time.” Daehyun can’t shroud his goofy grin despite how hard he’s trying.

“Do you really like it?”

“I love it. Honest.” Youngjae quietens down when the tears prick at his eyes. He melts into a watery simper and gently traces the ring around his fourth finger. It's true they won't be able to marry in a church with their family and friends watching, but somehow, marrying in a musty sedan while talking about what to eat for dinner is mind-numbingly romantic. Youngjae wants to preserve this moment so he can revisit it for the rest of eternity.

“First time you’re not being an ass. What a miracle.” Daehyun reaches over to dash Youngjae’s tears. His lips quirk.

“Don’t cry, you baby,” he heaves, mist blooming within his dark irises. “You’re going to make me cry too.”

Daehyun ends up crying anyway. Like a comical soap opera, they embrace in the car, tears streaming down their face and over their wobbly smiles. Alluring is the creases by Daehyun’s eyes; enchanting is the tremors in Daehyun’s inhales. Youngjae buries himself in the crook of Daehyun’s neck, a space where he hides his tears and laughter.

Youngjae feels absolutely breathless.

 

\--

 

Armed with an energy drink on a Monday morning, Youngjae clatters his fingers over the keyboard as he rushes for a deadline. He’s already past the climax and needs only to give this ghostwriting assignment a good ending, but he keeps erasing lines in hopes of finding the perfect words. Knowing the credit will go to someone else, Youngjae isn’t sure why he tries so hard.

He rubs at the love bites along his shoulder, getting his phone. There’s a message from Daehyun—a photo of a recent work Youngjae printed out.

_“Home isn’t a place,” he whispers. His fingers drip with snow as he cups her face._

_“It’s just where the heart wants to be—and my heart wants to be with you.”_

Youngjae’s eyes narrow into slits. His cheeks burn as he types, _Are you mocking me?_

Daehyun replies. _Yes._

 _I was inspired by you, dipshit,_ Youngjae sends back. _You were the cringeworthy asshole that said you liked my old apartment because I was there._

This time, it takes longer for Daehyun to answer. _Copyright infringement! Time to sue._

Youngjae snorts in amusement. _While you’re at it, file for a divorce too._

 _No,_ Daehyun returns immediately.

 

\--

 

Life is unpredictable, the overused saying goes. You spend your life trying to find a purpose and worrying over you’re living life right—if what you’re doing will lead you to a place of misery, or worse, a dead end.

That’s the vice of idealism. The pure dreamers fall in love with a sole passion and refuse to compromise with practicality and the notion of a back-up plan, else it ruins the romanticism. All that’s left is to pray to God the singular direction leads to a nice place because time never allows for a do-over.

For Youngjae, he’s always had a poor grasp on fulfilment. He invested his all into writing in hopes he would make a big impact on the world. He would move people with his stories, and this was where he thought he would find his elusive gratification.

But it’s the little things that count the most, Youngjae realises.

Junhong pulls to a stop outside the yellowing cluster of flats, paint peeling all the way down from the roof. Youngjae steps out and rakes his eyes over every inch of his childhood, spotting the minor differences and the major revamps. The lawn leading up to the lobby feels rougher and the ornaments by the gates have rusted beyond recognition.

“They built a mall over the skate park last year, hyung,” Junhong remarks, leaning against his car. “I wish they kept it, but then again, there’s not a lot of kids in the neighbourhood.”

“I’m glad. I’m surprised you didn’t get a concussion from playing there all the time. You always didn’t want to wear your helmet.” Youngjae takes both his and Daehyun’s gifts from the car boot.

“The cool kids would laugh at me!” Junhong protests.

“The cool kids won’t pay your medical bills when you hit your head.” Youngjae affectionately knuckles Junhong’s head.

“Hey, Appa took a day off just to see you today,” Junhong hums encouragingly. “He’s pretty excited, hyung.”

It doubles the nervousness in Youngjae’s throat. “Omma’s home too, right?”

“Of course she is. You know, she told all her friends not to call her until tomorrow so she won’t miss my phone call,” Junhong snickers. “She’s been bugging me all morning about when I’m going to bring you over.”

“Oh.” Youngjae’s chuckle is wearily bittersweet.

“It’s like I’m sending the president over. Eldest son privilege.”

Junhong suddenly lights up. “Oh yeah, Omma cooked your favourite dish: chili chicken. She spent all of yesterday marinating the chicken.”

“Hey, did you tell Omma and Appa about Daehyun?” Youngjae cuts in.

“No, why would I, hyung?” Junhong furrows his brows. He continues in a lower volume, “Are you going to tell them today?”

“No, another time. I just want to see them today,” Youngjae whispers. “It’s been a long time since I met them.”

Junhong pats his brother’s back. “I’ll go with you if you want, hyung.”

“Thanks, I think I’ll need you there. I don’t know how Daehyun did it by himself,” Youngjae laughs weakly.

“He’s a brave guy. Anyway, I really don’t think Omma and Appa would reject Daehyun, hyung,” Junhong placates. “They might get a shock but you know they’re not _that_ kind of people.”

Youngjae sighs. “I hope so.”

The elevator ride to the eight floor is slower than Youngjae remembers. The door creaks when they exit and they pace to the last unit by the potted plants. The rainbow windmill from two decades ago is still there.

Youngjae bites his lip. The plethora of emotions floods him to the brim when Junhong casually knocks on the door. He almost reaches out to stop Junhong, but he assures himself with Daehyun’s words from their phone call half an hour ago.

In his journey to a supposed nowhere, Youngjae relinquished friends and family to shame. He swore to show his face only when he could call himself something and make his parents proud. But Youngjae doesn’t know how long that will take.

The door swings open hastily. Youngjae sets eyes upon a woman with many more wrinkles drawn along her face, eye bags grey and skin drooping. Green veins crawl over her bony hands.

“Junhong,” their mother pauses and smiles so lovingly at the undeserving son she hasn’t seen for years.

“Youngjae,” her voice is croaky, showing her age. “You two should have told me you were coming this early. Your father left to buy dessert from the supermarket.”

“What? I should go down and help him later.” Junhong kicks off his shoes and enters first, bringing in some of their gifts. “Omma, wow, the food smells so good!”

Youngjae is left standing at the doorway, staring up at his mother. His mother extends a hand with some hesitance and tenderly thumbs her eldest son’s cheek.

She fondly gushes, “You really do have a baby face, don’t you, Youngjae? It’s like you never aged at all. You look younger than your brother now.”

It’s been seven years since he visited home. Youngjae feels like crying.

“Omma.”

 

\--

 

Sunshine spills onto the floorboards and nears the thread spools scattered around. Daehyun shifts aside so the sun doesn’t damage the book materials, grouping the pages into signatures. He pokes in the binding holes while Youngjae lies on the floor beside him.

He starts threading carefully. Youngjae slides away so he doesn’t distract Daehyun, only to be told to come back.

“You look like you’re having a much easier time than before,” Youngjae mentions.

“Yeah. The first one gave me good practice. But I have to be careful. I don’t want to mess this up.”

“I’m excited,” Youngjae confesses softly.

“Me too,” Daehyun chuckles, reaching down to pat Youngjae’s head.

It takes him an hour to finish stitching the signatures up. He lets out a loud grunt of relief and inspects the text block proudly.

Youngjae scoots up to admire it. “Wow, it looks amazing...”

“It does, huh? I’m not done yet, though. I’ve got to glue on the end pages.” Daehyun gingerly flips through the pages and Youngjae gapes in utter awe. The words on the pages are his, for once, and it looks undeniably professional.

Daehyun squashes the text block under a few large business books. He peeks at Youngjae’s phone screen.

“You’ve been staring at that for the past hour. What is it?”

“Hm? Oh, Younha told me yesterday about this writing contest that’s held every spring. I heard of it but I never was that interested in joining competitions.”

“What’s the prize?”

“They upgraded this year. The usual $1000, but plus a publishing deal.” Youngjae rolls onto his side, peering mindlessly at the competition poster.

“Younha told me to join,” he sighs, “but I’ll be up against a lot of people. There are famous freelance authors joining it.”

“You should join it,” Daehyun instantly states, squinting at the poster’s listed details. “Even if you’ve got tough competition, it wouldn’t hurt to try, right? It doesn’t say anything about your story belonging to them once you’ve submitted.

“It’s a good opportunity. There’s a lot of prizes—even the honourable mentions get vouchers.” Daehyun squeezes Youngjae’s shoulder encouragingly. “If it’s a hassle, you can even just send in a story you’ve already finished. You’ve got lots of them.”

Youngjae purses his lips in thought. “I feel like if I don’t win anything, future me wouldn’t take it well,” he says a little timidly. “At least now, without anyone else but you evaluating my works, and the fact that you’re always supportive… I can convince myself that what I write is worthwhile.”

“Hey. I’ve given you constructive criticism before. I want to support you but that doesn’t mean I purposely tell you only the good things,” Daehyun soothes.

“I know. Sorry. It’s just that you’re always so nice to me.”

Daehyun hums. “If you don’t put your work out there, then you’ll never know if people will love it or not. What if they do?”

“I mean, the companies already tell me that I suck,” Youngjae laughs. He presses his lips together when Daehyun grimaces.

“Sorry, I’m being a drag,” Youngjae murmurs.

“The companies don’t necessarily contract with people who are good, right? It’s what sells that matters the most. Besides, why you’re able to get repeated gigs as a ghostwriter is because people think you write well.”

“Even if you don’t win anything, what you write is still worthwhile. Unless you’re saying I’m not worthwhile.” Daehyun pouts, to which Youngjae feigns vomiting. Daehyun threatens to hit him.

“No, I’m really thankful you read my works honestly. You give me feedback but never in a way that bruises my inflated, fragile ego,” Youngjae jests. “Then again, you are my husband.”

Daehyun grips Youngjae by the shoulders so they come face-to-face. “Even if we break up, I’ll still read your books. Even if I don’t know you personally, I’d say your writing’s good if I got the chance to read it. Do you get that, kid?”

Youngjae stifles a light giggle. “No.”

“Alright, I’ll say it again. Even if-”

“I get it, I get it,” Youngjae laughs, putting his palm to Daehyun’s thick lips. “Thanks. That really means a lot to me.”

Youngjae goes back to boring his eyes through the poster image. “Yeah. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try,” he exhales softly.

 

\--

 

A month after, Daehyun presents Youngjae with his first self-published novel. It has a navy blue hard cover that boasts the large title _How We Breathe_ in white letters. Below that sits the words, _By Yoo Youngjae_.

Youngjae bursts out into tears once he sees it. They keep it on Youngjae’s desk in the study room, right beside the shelf of Youngjae’s many written works.

Every night, Youngjae writes in his diary a story about an office worker and a writer in a slump. They meet on a January night, the streets damp with drizzle and a sweet innocence—no knowledge of what the future holds, not a single expectation placed under a coffee can in a guitar case.

Youngjae leaves it open-ended.

 

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much for reading open-ended! ;v; I really am so grateful for each and every one of you who stuck with open-ended and left your thoughts T///v///T I'll post an A/N soon!!!


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